AND  HERE,  DAY  AFTER  DAY,  HE  SAT  ALONE 


THE 

GAY  COCKADE 


BY 

TEMPLE  BAILEY 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  TRUMPETER  SWAN, 
THE  TIN  SOLDIER,  ETC. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

C.  E.  CHAMBERS 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT 
1921  BY 
THE  PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


Made  ii  U.S.  A. 

The  Gay  Cockade 


For  permission  to  reprint  some  of  the  stories 
in  this  volume,  the  author  is  indebted  to  the 
courtesy  of  the  editors  of  Harper's  Magazine , 
8cribner>s  Magazine,  Collier's  Magazine,  Ladies' 
Home  Journal,  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Good 
Housekeeping,  aiid  Harper's  Bazar. 


2226G51 


Contents 

THE  GAT  COCKADE 7 

THE  HIDDEN  LAND 33 

WHITE  BIRCHES 84 

THE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 118 

THE  BED  CANDLE 132 

EETURNED  GOODS 149 

BURNED  TOAST 165 

PETRONELLA 187 

THE  CANOPY  BED 205 

SANDWICH  JANE 223 

LADY  CRUSOE 272 

A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER       ....  310 

WATT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING      ....  327 

BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK        .  351 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

FEOM  the  moment  that  Jimmie  Harding  came 
into  the  office,  he  created  an  atmosphere.  We  were 
a  tired  lot.  Most  of  us  had  been  in  the  government 
service  for  years,  and  had  been  ground  fine  in  the 
mills  of  departmental  monotony. 

But  Jimmie  was  young,  and  he  wore  his  youth  like 
a  gay  cockade.  He  flaunted  it  in  our  faces,  and 
because  we  were  so  tired  of  our  dull  and  desiccated 
selves,  we  borrowed  of  him,  remorselessly,  color  and 
brightness  until,  gradually,  in  the  light  of  his  re- 
flected glory,  we  seemed  a  little  younger,  a  little 
less  tired,  a  little  less  petrified. 

In  his  gay  and  gallant  youth  there  was,  however, 
a  quality  which  partook  of  earlier  times.  He 
should,  we  felt,  have  worn  a  feather  in  his  cap — and 
a  cloak  instead  of  his  Norfolk  coat.  He  walked 
with  a  little  swagger,  and  stood  with  his  hand  on 
his  hip,  as  if  his  palm  pressed  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 
If  he  ever  fell  in  love,  we  told  one  another,  he 
would,  without  a  doubt,  sing  serenades  and 
apostrophize  the  moon. 

7 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

He  did  fall  in  love  before  he  had  been  with  us  a 
year.  His  love-affair  was  a  romance  for  the  whole 
office.  He  came  among  us  every  morning  glorified; 
he  left  us  in  the  afternoon  as  a  knight  enters  upon 
a  quest. 

He  told  us  about  the  girl.  We  pictured  her  per- 
fectly before  we  saw  her,  as  a  little  thing,  with  a 
mop  of  curled  brown  hair;  an  oval  face,  pearl- 
tinted  ;  wide,  blue  eyes.  He  dwelt  on  all  her  small 
perfections — the  brows  that  swept  across  her  fore- 
head in  a  thin  black  line,  the  transparency  of  her 
slender  hands,  the  straight  set  of  her  head  on  her 
shoulders,  the  slight  halt  in  her  speech  like  that  of 
an  enchanting  child. 

Yet  she  was  not  in  the  least  a  child.  "  She  holds 
me  up  to  my  best,  Miss  Standish,"  Jimmie  told  me ; 
"  she  says  I  can  write." 

We  knew  that  Jimmie  had  written  a  few  things, 
gay  little  poems  that  he  showed  us  now  and  then 
in  the  magazines.  But  we  had  not  taken  them  at 
all  seriously.  Indeed,  Jimmie  had  not  taken  them 
seriously  himself. 

But  now  he  took  them  seriously.  "Elise  says 
that  I  can  do  great  things.  That  I  must  get  out  of 
the  Department." 

To  the  rest  of  us,  getting  out  of  the  government 
service  would  have  seemed  a  mad  adventure.  None 
of  us  would  have  had  the  courage  to  consider  it. 

8 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

But  it  seemed  a  natural  thing  that  Jiminie  should 
fare  forth  on  the  broad  highway — a  modern 
D'Artagnan,  a  youthful  Quixote,  an  Alan  Breck — ! 

We  hated  to  have  him  leave.  But  he  had  con- 
solation. "  Of  course  you'll  come  and  see  us. 
We're  going  back  to  my  old  house  in  Albemarle. 
It's  a  rotten  shack,  but  Elise  says  it  will  be  a  cork- 
ing place  for  me  to  write.  And  you'll  all  come 
down  for  week-ends." 

We  felt,  I  am  sure,  that  it  was  good  of  him  to 
ask  us,  but  none  of  us  expected  that  we  should 
ever  go.  We  had  a  premonition  that  Elise  wouldn't 
want  the  deadwood  of  Jimmie's  former  Division. 
I  know  that  for  myself,  I  was  content  to  think  of 
Jimmie  happy  in  his  old  house.  But  I  never  really 
expected  to  see  it.  I  had  reached  the  point  of 
expecting  nothing  except  the  day's  work,  my  dinner 
at  the  end,  a  night's  sleep,  and  the  same  thing  over 
again  in  the  morning. 

Yet  Jimmie  got  all  of  us  down,  not  long  after  he 
was  married,  to  what  he  called  a  housewarming. 
He  had  inherited  a  few  pleasant  acres  in  Virginia, 
and  the  house  was  two  hundred  years  old.  He  had 
never  lived  in  it  until  he  came  with  Elise.  It  was 
in  rather  shocking  condition,  but  Elise  had  man- 
aged to  make  it  habitable  by  getting  it  scrubbed 
very  clean,  and  by  taking  out  everything  that  was 
not  in  keeping  with  the  oldness  and  quaintness. 

9 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

The  resulting  effect  was  bare  but  beautiful.  There 
were  a  great  many  books,  a  few  oil-portraits,  ma- 
hogany sideboards  and  tables  and  four-poster  beds, 
candles  in  sconces  and  in  branched  candlesticks. 
They  were  married  in  April,  and  when  we  went 
down  in  June  poppies  were  blowing  in  the  wide 
grass  spaces,  and  honeysuckle  rioting  over  the  low 
stone  walls.  I  think  we  all  felt  as  if  we  had  passed 
through  purgatory  and  had  entered  heaven.  I 
know  I  did,  because  this  was  the  land  of  thing  of 
which  I  had  dreamed,  and  there  had  been  a  time 
when  I,  too,  had  wanted  to  write. 

The  room  in  which  Jimmie  wrote  was  in  a  little 
detached  house,  which  had  once  been  the  office  of 
his  doctor  grandfather.  He  had  his  typewriter  out 
there,  and  a  big  desk,  and  from  the  window  in  front 
of  his  desk  he  could  look  out  on  green  slopes  and 
the  distant  blue  of  mountain  ridges. 

We  envied  him  and  told  him  so. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Jimmie  said.  "  Of  course 
I'll  get  a  lot  of  work  done.  But  I'll  miss  your 
darling  old  heads  bending  over  the  other  desks." 

"You  couldn't  work,  Jimmie,"  Elise  reminded 
him,  "  with  other  people  in  the  room." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Did  I  tell  you  old  dears  that  I 
am  going  to  write  a  play?  " 

That  was,  it  seems,  what  Elise  had  had  in  mind 
for  him  from  the  beginning — a  great  play ! 

10 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  She  wouldn't  even  have  a  honeymoon  " — Jim- 
mie's  arm  was  around  her ;  "  she  brought  me  here, 
and  got  this  room  ready  the  first  thing." 

"  Well,  he  mustn't  be  wasting  time,"  said  Elise, 
"  must  he?  Jimniie's  rather  wonderful,  isn't  he?  " 

They  seemed  a  pair  of  babies  as  they  stood  there 
together.  Elise  had  on  a  childish  one-piece  pink 
frock,  with  sleeves  above  the  elbow,  and  an  organdie 
sash.  Yet,  intuitively,  the  truth  came  to  me — she 
was  ages  older  than  Jimmie  in  spite  of  her  twenty 
years  to  his  twenty-four.  Here  was  no  Juliet, 
flaming  to  the  moon — no  mistress  whose  steed 
would  gallop  by  wind-swept  roads  to  midnight 
trysts.  Here  was,  rather,  the  cool  blood  that  had 
sacrificed  a  honeymoon — and,  oh,  to  honeymoon 
with  Jimmie  Harding! — for  the  sake  of  an  ambi- 
tious future. 

She  was  telling  us  about  it.  "We  can  always 
have  a  honeymoon,  Jimmie  and  I.  Some  day,  when 
he  is  famous,  we'll  have  it.  But  now  we  must  not." 

"  I  picked  out  the  place  " — Jimmie  was  eager — 

"  a  dip  in  the  hills,  and  big  pines And  then 

Elise  wouldn't." 

We  went  in  to  lunch  after  that.  The  table  was 
lovely  and  the  food  delicious.  There  was  batter- 
bread,  I  remember,  and  an  omelette,  and  peas  from 
the  garden. 

Duncan  Street  and  I  talked  all  the  way  home  of 

11 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Jimmie  and  Ms  wife.  He  didn't  agree  with,  me  in 
the  least  about  Elise.  "  She'll  be  the  making  of 
him.  Such  wives  always  are." 

But  I  held  that  he  would  lose  something, — that 
he  would  not  be  the  same  Jimmie. 

Jimmie  wrote  plays  and  plays.  In  between  lie 
wrote  pot-boiling  books.  The  pot-boilers  were 
needed,  because  none  of  his  plays  were  accepted. 
He  used  to  stop  in  our  office  and  joke  about  it. 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  Elise's  faith  in  me,  Miss  Stand- 
ish,  I  should  think  myself  a  poor  stick.  Of  course, 
I  can  make  money  enough  with  my  books  and  short 
stuff  to  keep  things  going,  but  it  isn't  just  money 
that  either  of  us  is  after." 

Except  when  Jimmie  came  into  the  office  we  saw 
very  little  of  him.  Elise  gathered  about  her  the 
men  and  women  who  would  count  in  Jimmie's  fu- 
ture. The  week-ends  in  the  still  old  house  drew 
not  a  few  famous  folk  who  loathed  the  common- 
placeness  of  convivial  atmospheres.  Elise  had  old- 
fashioned  flowers  in  her  garden,  delectable  food, 
a  library  of  old  books.  It  was  a  heavenly  change 
for  those  who  were  tired  of  cocktail  parties,  bridge- 
madness,  illicit  love-making.  I  could  never  be  quite 
sure  whether  Elise  really  loved  dignified  living  for 
its  own  sake,  or  whether  she  was  sufficiently  dis- 
criminating to  recognize  the  kind  of  bait  which 

12 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

would  lure  the  fine  souls  whose  presence  gave  to 
her  hospitality  the  stamp  of  exclusiveness. 

They  had  a  small  car,  and  it  was  when  Jimmie 
motored  up  to  Washington  that  we  saw  him.  He 
had  a  fashion  of  taking  us  out  to  lunch,  two  at  a 
time.  When  he  asked  me,  he  usually  asked  Duncan 
Street.  Duncan  and  I  have  worked  side  by  side  for 
twenty-five  years.  There  is  nothing  in  the  least 
romantic  about  our  friendship,  but  I  should  miss 
him  if  he  were  to  die  or  to  resign  from  office.  I 
have  little  fear  of  the  latter  contingency.  Only 
death,  I  feel,  will  part  us. 

In  our  moments  of  reunion  Jimmie  always  talked 
a  great  deal  about  himself.  The  big  play  was,  he 
said,  in  the  back  of  his  mind.  "  Elise  says  that  I 
can  do  it,"  he  told  us  one  day  over  our  oysters, 
"  and  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  I  can.  I  say, 
why  can't  you  old  dears  in  the  office  come  down  for 
Christmas,  and  I'll  read  you  what  I've  written." 

We  were  glad  to  go.  There  were  to  be  no  other 
guests,  and  I  found  out  afterward  that  Elise  rarely 
invited  any  of  their  fashionable  friends  down  in 
winter.  The  place  showed  off  better  in  summer 
with  the  garden,  and  the  vines  hiding  all  defi- 
ciencies. 

We  arrived  in  a  snow-storm  on  Christmas  Eve, 
and  when  we  entered  the  house  there  was  a  roaring 
fire  on  the  hearth.  I  hadn't  seen  a  fire  like  that 

13 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

for  thirty  years.  You  may  know  how  I  felt  when 
I  knelt  down  in  front  of  it  and  warmed  my 
hands. 

The  candles  in  sconces  furnished  the  only  other 
illumination.  Elise,  moving  about  the  shadowy 
room,  seemed  to  draw  light  to  herself.  She  wore  a 
flame-colored  velvet  frock  and  her  curly  hair  was 
tucked  into  a  golden  net.  I  think  that  she  had 
planned  the  medieval  effect  deliberately,  and  it  was 
a  great  success.  As  she  flitted  about  like  a  bril- 
liant bird,  our  eyes  followed  her.  My  eyes,  indeed, 
drank  of  her,  like  new  wine.  I  have  always  loved 
color,  and  my  life  has  been  drab. 

I  spoke  of  her  frock  when  she  showed  me  my 
room. 

"  Oh,  do  you  like  it?  "  she  asked.  "  Jimmie  hates 
to  see  me  in  dark  things.  He  says  that  when  I 
wear  this  he  can  see  his  heroine." 

"  Is  she  like  you?  " 

"Not  a  bit.  She  is  rather  untamed.  Jimmie 
does  her  very  well.  She  positively  gallops  through 
the  play." 

"And  do  you  never  gallop?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It's  a  good  thing  that  I 
don't.  If  I  did,  Jimmie  would  never  write.  He 
says  that  I  keep  his  nose  to  the  grindstone.  It  isn't 
that,  but  I  love  him  too  much  to  let  him  squander 
his  talent.  If  he  had  no  talent,  I  should  love  him 

14 


without  it.    But,  having  it,  I  must  hold  him  up 
to  it." 

She  was  very  sure  of  herself,  very  sure  of  the 
Tightness  of  her  attitude  toward  Jinmiie.  "  I  know 
how  great  he  is,"  she  said,  as  we  went  down,  "  and 
other  people  don't.  So  I've  got  to  prove  it." 

It  was  at  dinner  that  I  first  noticed  a  change  in 
Jimmie.  It  was  a  change  which  was  hard  to  define. 
Yet  I  missed  something  in  him — the  enthusiasm, 
the  buoyancy,  the  almost  breathless  radiance  with 
which  he  had  rekindled  our  dying  fires.  Yet  he 
looked  young  enough  and  happy  enough  as  he  sat 
at  the  table  in  his  velvet  studio  coat,  with  his  crisp, 
burnt-gold  hair  catching  the  light  of  the  candles. 
He  and  his  wife  were  a  handsome  pair.  His  man- 
ner to  her  was  perfect.  There  could  be  no  question 
of  his  adoration. 

After  dinner  we  had  the  tree.  It  was  a  young 
pine  set  up  at  one  end  of  the  long  dining-room,  and 
lighted  in  the  old  fashion  by  red  wax  candles. 
There  were  presents  on  it  for  all  of  us.  Jimmie 
gave  me  an  adorably  illustrated  Mother  Goose. 

"You  are  the  only  other  child  here,  Miss 
Standish,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  to  me.  "  I  saw 
this  in  a  book-shop,  and  couldn't  resist  it." 

We  looked  over  the  pictures  together.  They 
were  enchanting.  All  the  bells  of  old  London  rang 

15 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

out  for  a  wistful  Whittington  in  a  ragged  jacket; 
Bo-Peep  in  panniers  and  £ink  ribbons  wailed  for 
her  historic  sheep;  Mother  Hubbard,  quaint  in  a 
mammoth  cap,  pursued  her  fruitless  search  for 
bones.  There  was,  too,  an  entrancing  Boy  Blue 
who  wound  his  horn,  a  sturdy  darling  with  his  legs 
planted  far  apart  and  distended  rosy  cheeks. 

"  That  picture  is  worth  the  price  of  the  whole 
book,"  said  Jimmie,  and  hung  over  it.  Then  sud- 
denly he  straightened  up.  "  There  should  be  chil- 
dren in  this  old  house." 

I  knew  then  what  I  had  missed  from  the  tree. 
Elise  had  a  great  many  gifts — exquisite  trifles  sent 
to  her  by  sophisticated  friends — a  wine-jug  of  seven- 
teenth-century Venetian  glass,  a  bag  of  Chinese 
brocade  with  handles  of  carved  ivory,  a  pair  of 
ancient  silver  buckles,  a  box  of  rare  lacquer  filled 
with  Oriental  sweets,  a  jade  pendant,  a  crystal  ball 
on  a  bronze  base — all  of  them  lovely,  all  to  be  ex- 
claimed over ;  but  the  things  I  wanted  were  drums 
and  horns  and  candy  canes,  and  tarletan  bags,  and 
pop-corn  chains,  and  things  that  had  to  be  wound 
up,  and  things  that  whistled,  and  things  that 
squawked,  and  things  that  sparkled.  And  Jimmie 
wanted  these  things,  but  Elise  didn't.  She  was 
perfectly  content  with  her  elegant  trifles. 

It  was  late  when  we  went  out  finally  to  the 
studio.  There  was  snow  everywhere,  but  it  was  a 

16 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

clear  night  with  a  moon  above  the  pines.  A  great 
log  burned  in  the  fireplace,  a  shaded  lamp  threw 
a  circle  of  gold  on  shining  mahogany.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  Jimmie's  writing  quarters  were  even 
more  attractive  in  December  than  in  June. 

Yet,  looking  back,  I  can  see  that  to  Jimmie  the 
little  house  was  a  sort  of  prison.  He  loved  men 
and  women,  contact  with  his  own  kind.  He  had 
even  liked  our  dingy  old  office  and  our  dreary,  dried- 
up  selves.  And  here,  day  after  day,  he  sat  alone — 
as  an  artist  must  sit  if  he  is  to  achieve — es  bildet 
ein  Talent  sich  in  der  Stille. 

We  sat  around  the  fire  in  deep  leather  chairs,  all 
except  Elise,  who  had  a  cushion  on  the  floor  at 
Jimmie's  feet. 

He  read  with  complete  absorption,  and  when  he 
finished  he  looked  at  me.  "What  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

I  had  to  tell  the  truth.  "  It  isn't  your  master- 
piece." 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  with  a  nerv- 
ous gesture.  "  I  told  Elise  that  it  wasn't." 

"  But  the  girl " — Elise's  gaze  held  hot  resent- 
ment— "  is  wonderful.  Surely  you  can  see  that." 

"  She  doesn't  seem  quite  real." 

"  Then  Jimmie  shall  make  her  real."  Elise  laid 
her  hand  lightly  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  Her 
gown  and  golden  net  were  all  flame  and  sparkle, 

17 


but  her  voice  was  cold.  "  He  shall  make  her 
real." 

"  No  " — it  seemed  to  me  that  as  he  spoke  Jimmie 
drew  away  from  her  hand — "  I  am  not  going  to  re- 
write it,  Elise.  I'm  tired  of  it." 

"  Jimmie ! " 

"I'm  tired  of  it " 

"  Finish  it,  and  then  you'll  be  free " 

"  Shall  I  ever  be  free? "  He  stood  up  and 
turned  his  head  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  sought 
some  way  of  escape.  "  Shall  I  ever  be  free?  I 
sometimes  think  that  you  and  I  will  stick  to  this  old 
house  until  we  grow  as  dry  as  dust.  I  want  to  live, 
Elise !  I  want  to  live !  " 

But  Elise  was  not  ready  to  let  Jimmie  live.  To 
her,  Jimmie  the  artist  was  more  than  Jimmie  the 
lover.  I  may  have  been  unjust,  but  she  seemed  to 
me  a  sort  of  mental  vampire,  who  was  sucking 
Jimmie's  youth.  Duncan  Street  snorted  when  I 
told  him  what  I  thought.  Elise  was  a  pretty 
woman,  and  a  pretty  woman  in  the  eyes  of  men  can 
do  no  wrong. 

"  You'll  see,"  I  said,  "  what  she'll  do  to  him." 

The  situation  was  to  me  astounding.     Here  was 

Life  holding  out  its  hands  to  Elise,  glory  of  youth 

demanding  glorious  response,  and  she,  incredibly, 

holding  back.    In  spite  of  my  gray  hair  and  stiff 

18 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

figure,  I  am  of  the  galloping  kind,  and  my  soul 
followed  Jimmie  Harding's  in  its  quest  for  freedom. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  Elise  could  not  do. 
She  could  not  make  Jimmie  rewrite  his  play.  "  I'll 
come  to  it  some  day,"  he  said,  "  but  not  yet.  In  the 
meantime  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with  books." 

He  did  a  great  deal  with  books,  so  that  he  wrote 
several  best-sellers.  This  eased  the  financial  situa- 
tion and  they  might  have  had  more  time  for  things. 
But  Elise  still  kept  him  at  it.  She  wanted  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  great  man. 

Yet  as  the  years  went  on,  Duncan  and  I  began 
to  wonder  if  her  hopes  would  be  realized.  Jimmie 
wrote  and  wrote.  He  was  successful  in  a  com- 
mercial sense,  but  fame  did  not  come  to  him.  There 
was  gray  in  his  burnt-gold  hair;  his  shoulders 
acquired  a  scholarly  droop,  and  he  wore  glasses  on 
a  black  ribbon.  It  was  when  he  put  on  glasses 
that  I  began  to  feel  a  thousand  years  old.  Yet  al- 
ways when  he  was  away  from  me  I  thought  of  him 
as  the  Jimmie  whose  youth  had  shone  with  blinding 
radiance. 

His  constancy  to  Duncan  and  to  me  began  to 
take  on  a  rather  pathetic  quality.  The  others  in 
the  office  drifted  gradually  out  of  his  life.  Some  of 
them  died,  some  of  them  resigned,  some  of  them 
worked  on,  plump  or  wizened  parodies  of  their 
former  selves.  I  was  stouter  than  ever,  and  stiffer, 

19 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

and  the  top  of  Duncan's  head  was  a  shining  cone. 
And  the  one  interesting  thing  in  our  otherwise 
dreary  days  was  Jimmie. 

"  You're  such  darling  old  dears,"  was  his  pleasant 
way  of  putting  it. 

But  Duncan  dug  up  the  truth  for  me.  "We 
knew  him  before  he  wrote.  He  gets  back  to  that 
when  he  is  with  us." 

I  had  grown  to  hate  Elise.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
emotion,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  she  really  deserved 
it.  But  Duncan  hated  her,  too.  "  You're  right," 
he  said  one  day  when  we  had  lunched  with  Jimmie ; 
"  she's  sucked  him  dry."  Jimmie  had  been  un- 
usually silent.  He  had  laughed  little.  He  had 
tapped  the  table  with  his  finger,  and  had  kept  his 
eyes  on  his  finger.  He  had  been  absent-minded. 
"  She  has  sucked  him  dry,"  said  Duncan,  with 
great  heat. 

But  she  hadn't.  That  was  the  surprising  thing. 
Just  as  we  were  all  giving  up  hope  of  Jimmie's 
proving  himself  something  more  than  a  hack,  he 
did  the  great  thing  and  the  wonderful  thing  that 
years  ago  Elise  had  prophesied.  His  play,  "  The 
Gay  Cockade,"  was  accepted  by  a  New  York  man- 
ager, and  after  the  first  night  the  world  went  wild 
about  it. 

I  had  helped  Jimmie  with  the  name.  I  had 
spoken  once  of  youth  as  a  gay  cockade.  "  That's  a 

20 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

corking  title,"  Jimmie  hud  said,  and  had  written  it 
in  his  note-book. 

When  his  play  was  put  in  rehearsal,  Duncan  and 
I  were  there  to  see.  We  took  our  month's  leave, 
traveled  to  New  York,  and  stayed  at  an  old- 
fashioned  boarding-house  in  Washington  Square. 
Every  day  we  went  to  the  theatre.  Elise  was 
always  there,  looking  younger  than  ever  in  the 
sables  bought  with  Jimmie's  advance  royalty,  and 
with  various  gowns  and  hats  which  were  the  by- 
products of  his  best-sellers. 

The  part  of  the  heroine  of  "  The  Gay  Cockade  " 
was  taken  by  Ursula  Sinuns.  She  was,  as  those 
of  you  who  have  seen  her  know,  a  Rosalind  come  to 
life.  With  an  almost  boyish  frankness  she  com- 
bined feminine  witchery.  She  had  glowing  red 
hair,  a  voice  that  was  gay  and  fresh,  a  temper  that 
was  hot.  She  galloped  through  the  play  as  Jimmie 
had  meant  that  she  should  gallop  in  that  first  poor 
draft  which  he  had  read  to  us  in  Albeniarle,  and  it 
was  when  I  saw  Ursula  in  rehearsal  that  I  realized 
what  Jimmie  had  done — he  had  embodied  in  his 
heroine  all  the  youth  that  he  had  lost — she  stood 
for  everything  that  Elise  had  stolen  from  him — for 
the  wildness,  the  impetuosity,  the  passion  which 
swept  away  prudence  and  went  neck  to  nothing  to 
fulfilment. 

Indeed,  the  whole  play  partook  of  the  madness  of 

21 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

youth.  It  bubbled  over.  Everybody  galloped  to  a 
rollicking  measure.  We  laughed  until  we  cried. 
But  there  was  more  than  laughter  in  it.  There 
was  the  melancholy  which  belongs  to  tender 
years  set  in  exquisite  contrast  to  the  prevailing 
mirth. 

Jimmie  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  re- 
hearsals. Several  times  he  challenged  Ursula's 
reading  of  the  part. 

"  You  must  not  give  your  Msses  with  such  ease," 
he  told  her  upon  one  occasion;  "  the  girl  in  the  play 
has  never  been  kissed." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  ignored  him. 
Again  he  remonstrated.  "  She's  frank  and  free," 
he  said.  "  Make  her  that.  Make  her  that.  Men 
must  fight  for  her  favors." 

She  came  to  it  at  last,  helped  by  that  Rosalind- 
like  quality  in  herself.  She  was  young,  as  he  had 
wanted  Elise  to  be,  clean-hearted,  joyous — girlhood 
at  its  best. 

Gradually  Jimmie  ceased  to  suggest.  He  would 
sit  beside  us  in  the  dimness  of  the  empty  audi- 
torium, and  watch  her  as  if  he  drank  her  in.  Xow 
and  then  he  would  laugh  a  little,  and  say,  under  his 
breath :  "  How  did  I  ever  write  it?  How  did  it  ever 
happen? " 

Elise,  on  the  other  side  of  him,  said,  at  last,  "  I 
knew  you  could  do  it,  Jimmie." 

22 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

"You  thought  I  could  do  great  things.  You 
never  knew  I  could  do — this " 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  month  that  Duncan 
said  to  me  one  night  as  we  rode  home  on  the  top  of 
a  'bus,  "  You  don't  suppose  that  he " 

"Elise  thinks  it,"  I  said.  "It's  waking  her 
up." 

Elise  and  Jimmie  had  been  married  fifteen  years, 
and  had  never  had  a  honeymoon,  not  in  the  sense 
that  Jimmie  wanted  it — an  adventure  in  romance, 
to  some  spot  where  they  could  forget  the  world  of 
work,  the  world  of  sordid  things,  the  world  that 
was  making  Jimmie  old.  Every  summer  Jimmie 
had  asked  for  it,  and  always  Elise  had  said, 
"  Wait." 

But  now  it  was  Elise  who  began  to  plan. 
"  When  your  play  is  produced,  we'll  run  away  some- 
where. Do  you  remember  the  place  you  always 
talked  about — up  in  the  hills?  " 

He  looked  at  her  through  his  round  glasses.  "  I 
can't  get  away  from  this  " — he  waved  his  hand  to- 
ward the  stage. 

"  If  it's  a  success  you  can,  Jimmie." 

"  It  will  be  a  success.  Ursula  Simms  is  a 
wonder.  Look  at  her,  Elise.  Look  at  her ! " 

Duncan  and  I  could  look  at  nothing  else.  As 
many  times  as  I  had  seen  her  in  the  part,  I  came  to 
it  always  eagerly.  It  was  her  great  scene — where 

23 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

the  girl,  breaking  free  from  all  that  has  bound  her, 
takes  the  hand  of  her  vagabond  lover  and  goes 
forth,  leaving  behind  wealth  and  a  marriage  of  dis- 
tinction, that  she  may  wander  across  the  moors  and 
down  on  the  sands,  with  the  wild  wind  in  her  face, 
the  stars  for  a  canopy ! 

It  tugged  at  our  hearts.  It  would  tug,  we  knew, 
at  the  heart  of  any  audience.  It  was  the  human 
nature  in  us  all  which  responded.  Not  one  of  us 
but  would  have  broken  bonds.  Oh,  youth,  youth! 
Is  there  anything  like  it  in  the  whole  wide  world? 

I  do  not  think  that  it  tugged  at  the  heart  of  Elise. 
Her  heart  was  not  like  that.  It  was  a  stay-at-home 
heart.  A  workaday-world  heart.  Elise  would 
never  under  any  circumstance  have  gone  forth  with 
a  vagabond  on  a  wild  night. 

But  here  was  Ursula  doing  it  every  day.  On  the 
evening  of  the  first  dress-rehearsal  she  wore  clothes 
that  showed  her  sense  of  fitness.  As  if  in  casting 
off  conventional  restraints,  she  renounced  conven- 
tional attire ;  she  came  down  to  her  lover  wrapped 
in  a  cloak  of  the  deep-purple  bloom  of  the  heather 
of  the  moor,  and  there  was  a  pheasant's  feather  in 
her  cap. 

"May  you  never  regret  it,  my  dear,  my  dear" 
said  the  lover  on  the  stage. 

"I  shall  love  you  -for  a  million  years/'  said 
Ursula,  and  we  felt  that  she  would,  and  that  love 

24 


was  eternal,  and  that  any  woman  might  have  it  if 
she  would  put  her  hand  in  her  lover's  and  run 
away  with  him  on  a  wild  night ! 

And  it  was  the  genius  of  Jimmie  Harding  that 
made  us  feel  that  the  thing  could  be  done.  He  sat 
forward  in  his  chair,  his  arms  on  the  back  of  the 
seat  in  front  of  him.  "  Jove ! "  he  kept  saying 
under  his  breath.  "  It's  the  real  thing.  It's  the 
real  thing " 

When  the  scene  was  over,  he  went  on  the  stage 
and  stood  by  Ursula.  Elise  from  her  seat  watched 
them.  Ursula  had  taken  off  the  cap  with  the 
pheasant's  feather.  Her  glorious  hair  shone  like 
copper,  her  hand  was  on  her  hip,  her  little  swagger 
matched  the  swagger  that  we  remembered  in  the 
old  Jimmie.  I  wondered  if  Elise  remembered. 

I  am  not  sure  what  made  Ursula  care  for  Jimmie 
Harding.  He  was  no  longer  a  figure  for  romance. 
But  she  did  care.  It  was,  perhaps,  that  she  saw  in 
him  the  fundamental  things  which  belonged  to  both 
of  them,  and  which  did  not  belong  to  Elise. 

As  the  days  went  on  I  was  sorry  for  Elise.  I 
should  never  have  believed  that  I  could  be  sorry,  but 
I  was.  Jimmie  was  always  punctiliously  polite  to 
her.  But  he  was  only  that. 

"  She's  getting  what  she  deserves,"  Duncan  said, 
but  I  felt  that  she  was,  perhaps,  getting  more  than 

26 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

she  deserved.  For,  after  all,  it  was  she  who  had 
kept  Jimmie  at  it,  and  it  was  her  keeping  him  at  it 
which  had  brought  success. 

Neither  Duncan  nor  I  could  tell  how  Jimmie  felt 
about  Ursula.  But  the  thought  of  her  troubled  my 
sleep.  Stripped  of  her  art,  she  was  not  in  the  least 
the  heroine  of  Jimmie's  play.  She  was  of  coarser 
clay,  commoner.  And  Jimmie  was  fine.  The  fear 
I  had  was  that  he  might  clothe  her  with  the  virtues 
which  he  had  created,  and  the  thought,  as  I  have 
said,  troubled  me. 

At  last  Duncan  and  I  had  to  go  home,  although 
we  promised  to  return  for  the  opening  night. 
Ursula  gave  a  farewell  supper  for  us.  She  lived 
alone  with  a  housekeeper  and  maid.  Her  apart- 
ment was  furnished  in  good  taste,  with,  perhaps,  a 
touch  of  over-emphasis.  The  table  had  unshaded 
purple  candles  and  heather  in  glass  dishes.  Ursula 
wore  woodland  green,  with  a  chaplet  of  heather 
about  her  glorious  hair.  Elise  was  in  white  with 
pearls.  She  was  thirty-five,  but  she  did  not  look  it. 
Ursula  was  older,  but  she  would  always  be  in  a 
sense  ageless,  as  such  women  are — one  would  thrill 
to  Sara  Bernhardt  were  she  seventeen  or  seventy. 

Jimmie  seemed  to  have  dropped  the  years  from 
him.  He  was  very  confident  of  the  success  of  his 
play.  "It  can't  fail,"  he  said,  "with  Ursula  to 

make  it  sure " 

26 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

I  wondered  whether  it  was  Ursula  or  Elise  who 
had  made  it  sure.  Could  he  ever  have  written  it  if 
Elise  had  not  kept  him  at  it?  Yet  she  had  stolen 
his  youth ! 

And  now  Ursula  was  giving  his  youth  back  to 
him  !  As  I  saw  the  cock  of  his  head,  heard  the  ring 
of  his  gay  laughter,  I  felt  that  it  might  be  so.  And 
suddenly  I  knew  that  I  didn't  want  Jimmie  to  be 
young  again.  Not  if  he  had  to  take  his  youth  from, 
the  hands  of  Ursula  Simms ! 

There  were  many  toasts  before  the  supper  ended 
— and  the  last  one  Jimmie  drank  "  To  Ursula  " ! 
As  he  stood  up  to  propose  it,  his  glasses  dangled 
from  their  ribbon,  his  shoulders  were  squared.  In 
the  soft  and  shaded  light  we  were  spared  the  gray 
in  his  hair — it  was  the  old  Jimmie,  gay  and 
gallant ! 

"  To  Ursula !  "  he  said,  and  the  words  sparkled. 
«  To  Ursula !  " 

I  looked  at  Elise.  She  might  have  been  the 
ghost  of  the  woman  who  had  flamed  in  the  old 
house  in  Albemarle.  In  her  white  and  pearls  she 
was  shadowy,  unsubstantial,  almost  spectral,  but 
she  raised  her  glass.  "  To  Ursula !  "  she  said. 

All  the  way  home  on  the  train  Duncan  and  I 
talked  about  it.  We  were  scared  to  death.  "  Oh, 
he  mustn't,  he  must  not,"  I  kept  saying,  and  Dun- 
can snorted. 

27 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"He's  a  young  fool.  She's  not  the  woman  for 
him " 

"Neither  of  them  is  the  woman,"  I  said,  "but 
Elise  has  made  him " 

"  No  man  was  ever  held  by  gratitude." 

"  He'd  hate  Ursula  in  a  year." 

"  He  thinks  he'd  live " 

"And  lose  his  soul " 

Jimmie's  play  opened  to  a  crowded  house. 
There  had  been  extensive  advertising,  and  Ursula 
had  a  great  following. 

Elise  and  Duncan  and  I  had  seats  in  an  upper 
box.  Elise  sat  where  she  was  hidden  by  the  cur- 
tains. Jimmie  came  and  went  unseen  by  the 
audience.  Between  acts  he  was  behind  the  scenes. 
Elise  had  little  to  say.  Once  she  reached  over  and 
laid  her  hand  on  mine. 

"I — I  think  I'm  frightened,"  she  said,  with  a 
catch  of  her  breath. 

"  It  can't  fail,  my  dear " 

"No,  of  course.  But  it's  very  different  from 
what  I  expected." 

"  What  is  different?  " 

"  Success." 

As  the  great  scene  came  closer,  I  seemed  to  hold 
my  breath.  I  was  so  afraid  that  the  audience 
might  not  see  it  as  we  had  seen  it  at  rehearsal. 

28 


"THE  GAT  COCKADE 

But  they  did  see  it,  and  it  was  a  stupendous  thing 
to  sit  there  and  watch  the  crowd,  and  know  that 
Jimmie's  genius  was  making  its  heart  beat  fast  and 
faster.  When  Ursula  in  her  purple  cloak  and 
pheasant's  feather  spoke  her  lines  at  the  end  of  the 
third  act,  "I  shall  love  you  for  a  million  years/' 
the  house  went  wild.  Men  and  women  who  had 
never  loved  for  a  moment  roared  for  this  woman 
who  had  made  them  think  they  could  love  until 
eternity.  They  wanted  her  back  and  they  got  her. 
They  wanted  Jimmie  and  they  got  him.  Ursula 
made  a  speech;  Jimmie  made  a  speech.  They 
came  out  for  uncounted  curtain-calls,  hand-in-hand. 
The  play  was  a  success ! 

The  last  act  was,  of  course,  an  anti-climax.  Be- 
fore it  was  finished,  Elise  said  to  me,  in  a  stifled 
voice,  "  I've  got  to  get  back  to  Jimmie." 

It  seemed  significant  that  Jimmie  had  not  come 
to  her.  Surely  he  had  not  forgotten  the  part  she 
had  played.  For  fifteen  years  she  had  worked  for 
this. 

We  found  ourselves  presently  behind  the  scenes. 
The  curtain  was  down,  the  audience  was  still  shout- 
ing, everybody  was  excited,  everybody  was  shaking 
hands.  The  stage-people  caught  at  Elise  as  she 
passed,  and  held  her  to  offer  congratulations.  I 
was  not  held  and  went  on  until  I  came  to  where 
Jimmie  and  Ursula  stood,  a  little  separate  from  tho 

29 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

rest.  Although  I  went  near  enough  to  touch  them, 
they  were  so  absorbed  in  each  other  that  they  did 
not  see  me.  Ursula  was  looking  up  at  Jimmie  and 
his  head  was  bent  to  her. 

"  Jimmie,"  she  said,  and  her  rich  voice  above  the 
tumult  was  clear  as  a  bell,  "do  you  know  how 
great  you  are?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I—I  feel  a  little  drunk  with 
it,  Ursula." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  and  now  her  words  stumbled, 
"  I — I  love  you  for  it.  Oh,  Jimmie,  Jimmie,  let's 
run  away  and  love  for  a  million  years " 

All  that  he  had  wanted  was  in  her  words — the 
urge  of  youth,  the  beat  of  the  wind,  the  song  of  the 
sea.  My  heart  stood  still. 

He  drew  back  a  little.  He  had  wanted  this. 
But  he  did  not  want  it  now — with  Ursula.  I  saw 
it  and  she  saw  it. 

"What  a  joke  it  would  be,"  he  said,  "but  we 
have  other  things  to  do,  my  dear." 

"  What  things?  " 

The  roar  of  the  crowd  came  louder  to  their  ears. 
"  Harding,  Harding !  Jimmie  Harding !  " 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  was 
not  for  her.  "Listen,  Ursula,  they're  calling 
me." 

She  stood  alone  after  he  had  left  her.  I  am  sure 
that  even  then  she  did  not  quite  believe  it  was  the 

30 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

end.  She  did  not  know  how,  in  all  the  years,  his 
wife  had  molded  him. 

When  he  had  satisfied  the  crowd,  Jimmie  fought 
his  way  to  where  Elise  and  Duncan  and  I  stood 
together. 

Elise  was  wrapped  in  a  great  cloak  of  silver 
brocade.  There  was  a  touch  of  silver,  too,  in  her 
hair.  But  she  had  never  seemed  to  me  so  small,  so 
childish. 

"  Oh,  Jimmie,"  she  said,  as  he  came  up,  "  you've 
done  it ! " 

"  Yes  " — he  was  flushed  and  laughing,  his  head 
held  high — "you  always  said  I  could  do  it.  And 
I  shall  do  it  again.  Did  you  hear  them  shout, 
Elise?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Jove !  I  feel  like  the  old  woman  in  the  nursery 
rhyme,  *  Alack-a-daisy,  do  this  be  I? ' "  He  was 
excited,  eager,  but  it  was  not  the  old  eagerness. 
There  was  an  avidity,  a  greediness. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You've  earned 
a  rest,  dearest.  Let's  go  up  in  the  hills." 

"  In  the  hills?    Oh,  we're  too  old,  Elise." 

"  We'll  grow  young." 

"  To-night  I've  given  youth  to  the  world.  That's 
enough  for  me  " — the  light  in  his  eyes  was  not  for 
her — "that's  enough  for  me.  We'll  hang  around 
New  York  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  we'll  go 

31 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

back  to  Albemarle.  I  want  to  get  to  work  on 
another  play.  It's  a  great  game,  Elise.  It's  a 
great  game ! " 

She  knew  then  what  she  had  done.  Here  was  a 
monster  of  her  own  making.  She  had  sacrificed 
her  lover  on  the  altar  of  success.  Jimmie  needed 
her  no  longer. 

I  would  not  have  you  think  this  an  unhappy  end- 
ing. Elise  has  all  that  she  had  asked,  and  Jimmie, 
with  fame  for  a  mistress,  is  no  longer  an  unwilling 
captive  in  the  old  house.  The  prisoner  loves  his 
prison,  welcomes  his  chains. 

But  Duncan  and  I  talk  at  times  of  the  young 
Jimmie  who  came  years  ago  into  our  office.  The 
Jimmie  Harding  who  works  down  in  Albemarle, 
and  who  struts  a  little  in  New  York  when  he  makes 
his  speeches,  is  the  ghost  of  the  boy  we  knew.  But 
he  loves  us  still. 


32 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

THE  mystery  of  Nancy  Greer's  disappearance  has 
never  been  explained.  The  man  she  was  to  have 
married  has  married  another  woman.  For  a  long 
time  he  mourned  Nancy.  He  has  always  held  the 
theory  that  she  was  drowned  while  bathing,  and  the 
rest  of  fancy's  world  agrees  with  him.  She  had 
left  the  house  one  morning  for  her  usual  swim. 
The  fog  was  coming  in,  and  the  last  person  to  see 
her  was  a  fisherman  returning  from  his  nets.  He 
had  stopped  and  watched  her  flitting  wraith-like 
through  the  mist.  He  reported  later  that  Nancy 
wore  a  gray  bathing  suit  and  cap  and  carried  a  blue 
cloak. 

"  You  are  sure  she  carried  a  cloak?  "  was  the 
question  which  was  repeatedly  asked.  For  no  cloak 
had  been  found  on  the  sands,  and  it  was  unlikely 
that  she  had  worn  it  into  the  water.  The  disap- 
pearance of  the  blue  cloak  was  the  only  point  which 
seemed  to  contradict  the  theory  of  accidental 
drowning.  There  were  those  who  held  that  the 
cloak  might  have  been  carried  off  by  some  acquisi- 
tive individual.  But  it  was  not  likely ;  the  islanders 

33 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

are,  as  a  rule,  honest,  and  it  was  too  late  in  the 
season  for  "  off -islanders." 

I  am  the  only  one  who  knows  the  truth.  And  as 
the  truth  would  have  been  harder  for  Anthony  Peak 
to  bear  than  what  he  believed  had  happened,  I  have 
always  withheld  it. 

There  was,  too,  the  fear  that  if  I  told  they  might 
try  to  bring  Nancy  back.  I  think  Anthony  would 
have  searched  the  world  for  her.  Not,  perhaps,  be- 
cause of  any  great  and  passionate  need  of  her,  but 
because  he  would  have  thought  her  unhappy  in 
what  she  had  done,  and  would  have  sought  to  save 
her. 

I  am  twenty  years  older  than  Nancy,  her  parents 
are  dead,  and  it  was  at  my  house  that  she  always 
stayed  when  she  came  to  Nantucket.  She  has 
island  blood  in  her  veins,  and  so  has  Anthony  Peak. 
Back  of  them  were  seafaring  folk,  although  in  the 
foreground  was  a  generation  or  two  of  cosmopolitan 
residence.  Nancy  had  been  educated  in  France, 
and  Anthony  in  England.  The  Peaks  and  the 
Greers  owned  respectively  houses  in  Beacon  Street 
and  in  Washington  Square.  They  came  every  sum- 
mer to  the  island,  and  it  was  thus  that  Anthony 
and  Nancy  grew  up  together,  and  at  last  became 
engaged. 

As  I  have  said,  I  am  twenty  years  older  than 
Nancy,  and  I  am  her  cousin.  I  lire  in  the  old 

34 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

Greer  house  on  Orange  Street,  for  it  is  mine  by  in- 
heritance, and  was  to  have  gone  to  Nancy  at  my 
death.  But  it  will  not  go  to  her  now.  Yet  I  some- 
times wonder — will  the  ship  which  carried  her 
away  ever  sail  back  into  the  harbor?  Some  day, 
when  she  is  old,  will  she  walk  up  the  street  and  be 
sorry  to  find  strangers  in  the  house? 

I  remember  distinctly  the  day  when  the  yacht 
first  anchored  within  the  Point.  It  was  a  Sunday 
morning  and  Nancy  and  I  had  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  house  to  the  Captain's  Walk,  the  white-railed 
square  on  the  roof  which  gave  a  view  of  the  harbor 
and  of  the  sea. 

Nancy  was  twenty-five,  slim  and  graceful.  She 
wore  that  morning  a  short  gray-velvet  coat  over 
white  linen.  Her  thick  brown  hair  was  gathered 
into  a  low  knot  and  her  fine  white  skin  had  a  touch 
of  artificial  color.  Her  eyes  were  a  clear  blue. 
She  was  really  very  lovely,  but  I  felt  that  the  gray 
coat  deadened  her — that  if  she  had  not  worn  it  she 
would  not  have  needed  that  touch  of  color  in  her 
cheeks. 

She  lighted  a  cigarette  and  stood  looking  off, 
with  her  hand  on  the  rail.  "  It  is  a  heavenly  morn- 
ing, Ducky.  And  you  are  going  to  church?  " 

I  smiled  at  her  and  said,  "  Yes." 

Nancy  did  not  go  to  church.  She  practiced  an 
easy  tolerance.  Her  people  had  been,  originally, 

35 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Quakers.  In  later  years  they  had  turned  to 
Unitarianism.  And  now  in  this  generation,  Nancy, 
as  well  as  Anthony  Peak,  had  thrown  off  the 
shackles  of  religious  observance. 

"But  it  is  worth  having  the  churches  just  for 
the  bells,"  Nancy  conceded  on  Sunday  mornings 
when  their  music  rang  out  from  belfry  and  tower. 

It  was  worth  having  the  churches  for  more  than 
the  bells.  But  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  Nancy. 
Her  morals  and  Anthony's  were  irreproachable. 
That  is,  from  the  modern  point  of  view.  They 
played  cards  for  small  stakes,  drank  when  they 
pleased,  and,  as  I  have  indicated,  Nancy  smoked. 
She  was,  also,  not  unkissed  when  Anthony  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  These  were  not  the  ideals  of  my 
girlhood,  but  Anthony  and  Nancy  felt  that  such 
small  vices  as  they  cultivated  saved  them  from  the 
narrow-mindedness  of  their  forebears. 

"Anthony  and  I  are  going  for  a  walk,"  she  said. 
"  I  will  bring  you  some  flowers  for  your  bowls, 
Elizabeth." 

It  was  just  then  that  the  yacht  steamed  into  the 
harbor — majestically,  like  a  slow-moving  swan.  I 
picked  out  the  name  with  my  sea-glasses,  The 
Viking. 

I  handed  the  glasses  to  Nancy.  "Never  heard 
of  it,"  she  said.  "  Did  you?  " 

"No,"  I  answered.  Most  of  the  craft  which 

36 


THE  BIDDER  LAND 

came  in  were  familiar,  and  I  welcomed  them  each 
year. 

"  Some  new-rich  person  probably,"  Nancy  de- 
cided. "Ducky,  I  have  a  feeling  that  the  owner 
of  The  Viking  bought  it  from  the  proceeds  of  pills 
or  headache  powders." 

"  Or  pork." 

I  am  not  sure  that  Nancy  and  I  were  justified  in 
our  disdain — whale-oil  has  perhaps  no  greater  claim 
to  social  distinction  than  bacon  and  ham  or — pills. 

The  church  bells  were  ringing,  and  I  had  to  go 
down.  Nancy  stayed  on  the  roof. 

"  Send  Anthony  up  if  he's  there,"  she  said ;  "  we 
will  sit  here  aloft  like  two  cherubs  and  look  down 
on  you,  and  you  will  wish  that  you  were  with  us." 

But  I  knew  that  I  should  not  wish  it;  that  I 
should  be  glad  to  walk  along  the  shaded  streets 
with  my  friends  and  neighbors,  to  pass  the  gardens 
that  were  yellow  with  sunlight,  and  gay  with  lark- 
spur and  foxglove  and  hollyhocks,  and  to  sit  in  the 
pew  which  was  mine  by  inheritance. 

Anthony  was  down-stairs.  He  was  a  tall,  per- 
fectly turned  out  youth,  and  he  greeted  me  in  his 
perfect  manner. 

"Nancy  is  on  the  roof,"  I  told  him,  "and  she 
wants  you  to  come  up." 

"  So  you  are  going  to  church?  Pray  for  me, 
Elizabeth." 

37 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Yet  I  knew  lie  felt  that  he  did  not  need  my 
prayers.  He  had  Nancy,  more  money  than  he  could 
spend,  and  life  was  before  him.  What  more,  he 
would  ask,  could  the  gods  give? 

I  issued  final  instructions  to  my  maids  about  the 
dinner  and  put  on  my  hat.  It  was  a  rather  super- 
lative hat  and  had  come  from  Fifth  Avenue.  I 
spend  the  spring  and  fall  in  New  York  and  buy  my 
clothes  at  the  smartest  places.  The  ladies  of  Nan- 
tucket  have  never  been  provincial  in  their  fashions. 
Our  ancestors  shopped  in  the  marts  of  the  world. 
When  our  captains  sailed  the  seas  they  brought 
home  to  their  womenfolk  the  treasures  of  loom  and 
needle  from  Barcelona  and  Bordeaux,  from  Bom- 
bay and  Calcutta,  London  and  Paris  and  Tokio. 

And  perhaps  because  of  my  content  in  my  new 
hat,  perhaps  because  of  the  pleasant  young  pair  of 
lovers  which  I  had  left  behind  me  in  the  old  house, 
perhaps  because  of  the  shade  and  sunshine,  and  the 
gardens,  perhaps  because  of  the  bells,  the  world 
seemed  more  than  ever  good  to  me  as  I  went  on 
my  way. 

My  pew  in  the  church  is  well  toward  the  middle. 
]\Iy  ancestors  were  modest,  or  perhaps  they  assumed 
that  virtue.  They  would  have  neither  the  highest 
nor  the  lowest  seat  in  the  synagogue. 

It  happens,  therefore,  that  strangers  who  come 
usually  sit  in  front  of  me.  I  have  a  lively  curiosity, 

38 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

and  I  like  to  look  at  them.  In  the  winter  there  are 
no  strangers,  and  my  mind  is,  I  fancy,  at  such 
times,  more  receptive  to  the  sermon. 

I  was  early  and  sat  almost  alone  in  the  great 
golden  room  whose  restraint  in  decoration  suggests 
the  primitive  bareness  of  early  days.  Gradually 
people  began  to  come  in,  and  my  attention  was 
caught  by  the  somewhat  unusual  appearance  of  a 
man  who  walked  up  the  aisle  preceded  by  the 
usher. 

He  was  rather  stocky  as  to  build,  but  with  good, 
square  military  shoulders  and  small  hips.  He  wore 
a  blue  reefer,  white  trousers,  and  carried  a  yachts- 
man's cap.  His  profile  as  he  passed  into  his  pew 
showed  him  young,  his  skin  slightly  bronzed,  his 
features  good,  if  a  trifle  heavy. 

Yet  as  he  sat  down  and  I  studied  his  head,  what 
seemed  most  significant  about  him  was  his  hair. 
It  was  reddish-gold,  thick,  curled,  and  upstanding, 
like  the  hair  on  the  head  of  a  lovely  child,  or  in  the 
painting  of  a  Titian  or  a  Tintoretto. 

In  a  way  he  seemed  out  of  place.  Young  men  of 
his  type  so  rarely  came  to  church  alone.  Indeed, 
they  rarely  came  to  church  at  all.  He  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  out-of-doors — to  wide  spaces.  I  was 
puzzled,  too,  by  a  faint  sense  of  having  seen  Mm 
before. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  sermon  that  it  all  con- 

39 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

nected  up.  Years  ago  a  ship  had  sailed  into  the 
harbor,  and  I  had  been  taken  down  to  see  it.  I  had 
been  enchanted  by  the  freshly  painted  figurehead — 
a  strong  young  god  of  some  old  Korse  tale,  with 
red-gold  hair  and  a  bright  blue  tunic.  And  now  in 
the  harbor  was  The  Viking,  and  here,  in  the  shadow 
of  a  perfectly  orthodox  pulpit,  sat  that  strong 
young  god,  more  glorious  even  than  my  memory  of 
his  wooden  prototype. 

He  seemed  to  be  absolutely  at  home — sat  and 
stood  at  the  right  places,  sang  the  hymns  in  a  de- 
lightful barytone  which  was  not  loud,  but  which 
sounded  a  clear  note  above  the  feebler  efforts  of  the 
rest  of  us. 

It  has  always  been  my  custom  to  welcome  the 
strangers  within  our  gates,  and  I  must  confess  to  a 
preference  for  those  who  seem  to  promise  some- 
thing more  than  a  perfunctory  interchange. 

So  as  my  young  viking  came  down  the  aisle,  I 
held  out  my  hand.  "  We  are  so  glad  to  have  you 
•with  us." 

He  stopped  at  once,  gave  me  his  hand,  and  bent 
on  me  his  clear  gaze.  "  Thank  you."  And  then, 
immediately :  "  You  live  here?  In  Nantucket?  " 

"Yes." 

"All  the  year  round?  " 

"  Practically." 

u  That  is  very  interesting."  Again  his  clear  gaze 

40 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

appraised  me.  "  May  I  walk  a  little  way  with  you? 
I  have  no  friends  here,  and  I  want  to  ask  a  lot  of 
questions  about  the  island." 

The  thing  which  struck  me  most  as  we  talked 
was  his  utter  lack  of  self-consciousness.  He  gave 
himself  to  the  subject  in  hand  as  if  it  were  a  vital 
matter,  and  as  if  he  swept  all  else  aside.  It  is  a 
quality  possessed  by  few  New  Englanders ;  it  is,  in- 
deed, a  quality  possessed  by  few  Americans.  So 
when  he  offered  to  walk  with  me,  it  seemed  per- 
fectly natural  that  I  should  let  him.  Not  one  man 
in  a  thousand  could  have  made  such  a  proposition 
without  an  immediate  erection  on  my  part  of  the 
barriers  of  conventionality.  To  have  erected  any 
barrier  in  this  instance  would  have  been  an  insult 
to  my  perception  of  the  kind  of  man  with  whom  I 
had  to  deal. 

He  was  a  gentleman,  individual,  and  very  much 
in  earnest;  and  more  than  all,  he  was  immensely 
attractive.  There  was  charm  in  that  clear  blue 
gaze  of  innocence.  Yet  it  was  innocence  plus  knowl- 
edge, plus  something  which  as  yet  I  could  not 
analyze. 

He  left  me  at  my  doorstep.  I  found  that  he  had 
come  to  the  island  not  to  play  around  for  the  sum- 
mer at  the  country  clubs  and  on  the  bathing  beach, 
but  to  live  in  the  past — see  it  as  it  had  once  been — 
when  its  men  went  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  And 

41 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

because  there  was  still  so  much  that  we  had  to  say 
to  each  other,  I  asked  him  to  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  me,  "  this  afternoon  at  four." 

He  accepted  at  once,  with  his  air  of  sweeping 
aside  everything  but  the  matter  in  hand.  I  entered 
the  house  with  a  sense  upon  me  of  high  adventure. 
I  could  not  know  that  I  was  playing  fate,  changing 
in  that  moment  the  course  of  Nancy's  future. 

Dinner  was  at  one  o'clock.  It  seems  an  impos- 
sible hour  to  people  who  always  dine  at  night.  But 
on  the  Sabbath  we  Nantucketers  eat  our  principal 
meal  when  we  come  home  from  church. 

Nancy  and  Anthony  protested  as  usual.  "  Of 
course  you  can't  expect  us  to  dress." 

Nancy  sat  down  at  the  table  with  her  hat  on,  and 
minus  the  velvet  coat.  She  was  a  bit  disheveled 
and  warm  from  her  walk.  She  had  brought  in  a 
great  bunch  of  blue  vetch  and  pale  mustard,  and 
we  had  put  it  in  the  center  of  the  table  in  a  bowl 
of  gray  pottery.  My  dining-room  is  in  gray  and 
white  and  old  mahogany,  and  Nancy  had  had  an  eye 
to  its  coloring  when  she  picked  the  flowers.  They 
would  not  have  fitted  in  with  the  decorative  scheme 
of  my  library,  which  is  keyed  up,  or  down,  to  an 
antique  vase  of  turquoise  glaze,  or  to  the  drawing- 
room,  which  is  in  English  Chippendale  with  mul- 
berry brocade. 

42 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

We  had  an  excellent  dinner,  served  by  my  little 
Portuguese  maid.  Nancy  praised  tlie  lobster 
bisque  and  Anthony  asked  for  a  second  helping  of 
roast  duck.  They  had  their  cigarettes  with  their 
coffee. 

Long  before  we  came  to  the  coffee,  however,  An- 
thony had  asked  in  his  pleasant  way  of  the  morn- 
ing service. 

"  Tell  us  about  the  sermon,  Elizabeth." 

"And  the  text,"  said  Nancy. 

I  am  apt  to  forget  the  text,  and  they  knew  it. 
It  was  always  a  sort  of  game  between  us  at  Sunday 
dinner,  in  which  they  tried  to  prove  that  my  atten- 
tion had  strayed,  and  that  I  might  much  better 
have  stayed  at  home,  and  thus  have  escaped  the 
bondage  of  dogma  and  of  dressing  up. 

I  remembered  the  text,  and  then  I  told  them 
about  Olaf  Thoresen. 

Nancy  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "  The  pills  man? 
Or  was  it — pork?  " 

"  It  was  probably  neither.  Don't  be  a  snob, 
Nancy." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  It  was  you  who 
said  'pork,'  Elizabeth." 

"  He  is  coming  to  tea." 

"  To-day?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Sorry,"  said  Nancy.  "  Fd  like  to  see  him,  but 

43 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

I  have  promised  to  drive  Bob  Needham  to  'Sconset 
for  a  swim." 

Anthony  had  made  the  initial  engagement — to 
play  tennis  with  Mimi  Sears,  "  Provided,  of  course, 
that  you  have  no  other  plans  for  me,"  he  had  told 
Nancy,  politely. 

She  had  no  plans,  nor  would  she,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, have  urged  them.  That  was  their 
code — absolute  freedom.  "  We'll  be  a  lot  happier 
if  we  don't  tie  each  other  up." 

It  was  to  me  an  amazing  attitude.  In  my  young 
days  lovers  walked  out  on  Sunday  afternoons  to 
the  old  cemetery,  or  on  the  moor,  or  along  the 
beach,  and  came  back  at  twilight  together,  and  sat 
together  after  supper,  holding  hands. 

I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that  Anthony  held 
Nancy's  hands,  but  there  was  nothing  fixed  about 
the  occasions.  They  had  done  away  with  billing 
and  cooing  in  the  old  sense,  and  what  they  had  sub- 
stituted seemed  to  satisfy  them. 

Anthony  left  about  three,  and  I  went  up  to  get 
into  something  thin  and  cool,  and  to  rest  a  bit  be- 
fore receiving  my  guest.  I  heard  Nancy  at  the 
telephone  making  final  arrangements  with  the 
Drakes.  After  that  I  fell  asleep,  and  knew  noth- 
ing more  until  Anita  came  up  to  announce  that  Mr. 
Thoresen  was  down-stairs. 

Tea  was  served  in  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 

44 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

house,  where  there  were  some  deep  wicker  chairs, 
and  roses  in  a  riot  of  bloom. 

"  This  is — enchanting — "  said  Olaf.  He  did  not 
git  down  at  once.  He  stood  looking  about  him,  at 
the  sun-dial,  and  the  whale's  jaw  lying  bleached  on 
a  granite  pedestal,  and  at  the  fine  old  houses  rising 
up  around  us.  "  It  is  enchanting.  Do  you  know, 
I  have  been  thinking  myself  very  fortunate  since 
you  spoke  to  me  in  church  this  morning." 

After  that  it  was  all  very  easy.  He  asked  and  I 
answered.  "You  see,"  he  explained,  finally,  "I 
am  hungry  for  anything  that  tells  me  about  the  sea. 
Three  generations  back  we  were  all  sailors — my 
great-grandfather  and  his  fathers  before  him  in 
Norway — and  far  back  of  that — the  vikings."  He 
drew  a  long  breath.  "  Then  my  grandfather  came 
to  America.  He  settled  in  the  West — in  Dakota, 
and  planted  grain.  He  made  money,  but  he  was  a 
thousand  miles  away  from  the  sea.  He  starved  for 
it,  but  he  wanted  money,  and,  as  I  have  said,  he 
made  it.  And  my  father  made  more  money.  Then 
I  came.  The  money  took  me  to  school  in  the  East — 
to  college.  My  mother  died  and  my  father.  And 
now  the  money  is  my  own.  I  bought  a  yacht,  and 
I  have  lived  on  the  water.  I  can't  get  enough  of  it. 
I  think  that  I  am  making  up  for  all  that  my  father 
and  my  grandfather  denied  themselves." 

I  can't  in  the  least  describe  to  you  how  he  said 

45 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

it.  There  was  a  tenseness,  almost  a  fierceness,  in 
his  brilliant  blue  eyes.  Yet  he  finished  up  with  a 
little  laugh.  "  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  sort  of 
Flying  Dutchman — sailing  the  seas  eternally, 
driven  not  by  any  sinister  force  but  by  my  own  de- 
light in  it." 

"  Do  you  go  alone?  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  guests — at  times.  But  I  am  often 
my  own — good  company " 

He  stopped  and  rose.  Nancy  had  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  She  crossed  the  porch  and  came 
down  toward  us.  She  was  in  her  bathing  suit  and 
cap,  gray  again,  with  a  line  of  green  on  the  edges, 
and  flung  over  her  shoulders  was  a  gray  cloak. 
She  was  on  her  way  to  the  stables — it  was  before 
the  day  of  motor-cars  on  the  island,  those  halcyon, 
heavenly  days.  The  door  was  open  and  her  horse 
harnessed  and  waiting  for  her.  She  could  not, 
of  course,  pass  us  without  speaking,  and  so  I  pre- 
sented Olaf. 

Anita  had  brought  the  tea,  and  Nancy  stayed  to 
eat  a  slice  of  thin  bread  and  butter.  "  In  this  air 
one  is  always  hungry,"  she  said  to  Olaf,  and  smiled 
at  him. 

He  did  not  smile  back.  He  was  surveying  her 
with  a  sort  of  frowning  intensity.  She  spoke  of  it 
afterward,  "  Does  he  always  stare  like  that?  "  But 
I  think  that,  in  a  way,  she  was  pleased. 

46 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

She  drove  her  own  horse,  wrapped  in  her  cloak 
and  with  an  utter  disregard  to  the  informality  of 
her  attire.  She  would,  I  knew,  gather  up  the 
Drakes  and  Bob  Needham,  likewise  attired  in  bath- 
ing costumes,  and  they  would  all  have  tea  on  the 
other  side  of  the  island,  naiad-like  and  utterly  un- 
concerned. I  did  not  approve  of  it,  but  Nancy  did 
not  cut  her  life  to  fit  my  pattern. 

When  she  had  gone,  Olaf  said  to  me,  abruptly, 
"  Why  does  she  wear  gray?  " 

"  Oh,  she  has  worked  out  a  theory  that  repression 
in  color  is  an  evidence  of  advanced  civilization. 
The  Japanese,  for  example " 

"Why    should    civilization    advance?     It    has 

gone  far  enough — too  far And  she  should 

wear   a   blue    cloak — sea-blue — the    color   of   her 
eyes " 

"And  of  yours."    I  smiled  at  him. 

"  Yes.    Are  they  like  hers?  " 

They  were  almost  uncannily  alike.  I  had  no- 
ticed it  when  I  saw  them  together.  But  there  the 
resemblance  stopped. 

"  She  belongs  to  the  island?  " 

"  She  lives  in  New  York.  But  every  drop  of 
blood  in  her  is  seafaring  blood." 

"  Good !  "  He  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then 
spoke  of  something  else.  But  when  he  was  ready 
to  go,  he  included  Nancy  in  an  invitation.  "If 

47 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

i 

you  and  Miss  Greer  could  lunch,  with  me  to-morrow 
on  my  yacht " 

I  was  not  sure  about  Nancy's  engagements,  but 
I  thought  we  might.  "  You  can  call  us  up  in  the 
morning." 

Nancy  brought  the  Drakes  and  Bob  Needham 
back  with  her  for  supper,  and  Mimi  Sears  was  with 
Anthony.  Supper  on  Sunday  is  an  informal 
meal — everything  on  the  table  and  the  servants 
out. 

Nancy,  clothed  in  something  white  and  exquisite, 
served  the  salad.  "  So  your  young  viking  didn't 
stay,  Elizabeth?  " 

"  I  didn't  ask  him." 

It  was  then  that  she  spoke  of  his  frowning  gaze. 
"Does  he  always  stare  like  that?  " 

Anthony,  breaking  in,  demanded,  "  Did  he  stare 
at  Nancy?  " 

I  nodded.     "  It  was  her  eyes." 

They  all  looked  at  me.    "  Her  eyes?  " 

"Yes.  He  said  that  her  cloak  should  have 
matched  them." 

Anthony  flushed.  He  has  a  rather  captious  code 
for  outsiders.  Evidently  Olaf  had  transgressed 
it. 

"  Is  the  man  a  dressmaker?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  Anthony." 

"  Then  why  should  he  talk  of  Nancy's  clothes?  " 

48 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

"  Well,"  Nancy  remarked,  "  perhaps  the  less  said 
about  my  clothes  the  better.  I  was  in  my  bathing 
suit." 

Anthony  was  irritable.  "  Well,  why  not?  You 
had  a  right  to  wear  what  you  pleased,  but  he  did 
not  have  a  right  to  make  remarks  about  it." 

I  came  to  Olaf's  defense.  "You  would  under- 
stand better  if  you  could  see  him.  He  is  rather 
different,  Anthony." 

"  I  don't  like  different  people,"  and  in  that  sen- 
tence was  a  s\unmary  of  Anthony's  prejudices.  He 
and  Nancy  mingled  with  their  own  kind.  An- 
thony's friends  were  the  men  who  had  gone  to  the 
right  schools,  who  lived  in  the  right  streets,  be- 
longed to  the  right  clubs,  and  knew  the  right  peo- 
ple. Within  those  limits,  humanity  might  do  as  it 
pleased ;  without  them,  it  was  negligible,  and  not  to 
be  considered. 

After  supper  the  five  of  them  were  to  go  for  a 
sail.  There  was  a  moon,  and  all  the  wonder  of  it. 

Anthony  was  not  keen  about  the  plan.  "  Oh, 
look  here,  Nancy,"  he  complained,  "  we  have  done 
enough  for  one  day " 

"  I  haven't." 

Of  course  that  settled  it.  Anthony  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  submitted.  He  did  not  share 
Nancy's  almost  idolatrous  worship  of  the  sea.  It 
was  the  one  fundamental  thing  about  her.  She 

49 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

bathed  in  it,  swam  in  it,  sailed  on  it,  and  she  was 
never  quite  happy  away  from  it. 

I  heard  Anthony  later  in  the  hall,  protesting.  I 
had  gone  to  the  library  for  a  book,  and  their  voices 
reached  me. 

"  I  thought  you  and  I  might  have  one  evening 
without  the  others." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  silly,  Anthony." 

I  think  my  heart  lost  a  beat.  Here  was  a  lover 
asking  his  mistress  for  a  moment — and  she  laughed 
at  him.  It  did  not  fit  in  with  my  ideas  of  young 
romance. 

Yet  late  that  night  I  heard  the  murmur  of  their 
voices  and  looked  out  into  the  white  night.  They 
stood  together  by  the  sun-dial,  and  his  arm  was 
about  her,  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  And  it  was 
not  the  first  time  that  a  pair  of  lovers  had  stood 
by  that  dial  under  the  moon. 

I  went  back  to  bed,  but  I  could  not  sleep.  I 
lighted  my  bedside  lamp,  and  read  Vanity  Fair. 
I  find  Thackeray  an  excellent  corrective  when  I  am 
emotionally  keyed  up. 

Nancy,  too,  was  awake ;  I  could  see  her  light  shin- 
ing across  the  hall.  She  came  in,  finally,  and  sat 
on  the  foot  of  my  bed. 

"Your  viking  was  singing  as  we  passed  his 
boat " 

"  Singing?  " 

50 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

"Yes,  hymns,  Elizabeth.  The  others  laughed, 
Anthony  and  Mimi,  but  I  didn't  laugh.  His  voice 
is — wonderful " 

She  had  on  a  white-cr£pe  peignoir,  and  there  was 
no  color  in  her  cheeks.  Her  skin  had  the  soft 
whiteness  of  a  rose  petal.  Her  eyes  were  like  stars. 
As  I  lay  there  and  looked  at  her  I  wondered  if  it 
was  Anthony's  kisses  or  the  memory  of  Olaf 's  sing- 
ing which  had  made  her  eyes  shine  like  that. 

I  had  heard  him  sing,  and  I  said  so,  "  in  church." 

Her  arms  clasped  her  knees.  "  Isn't  it  queer 
that  he  goes  to  church  and  sings  hymns?  " 

"  Why  queer?    I  go  to  church." 

"  Yes.  But  you  are  different.  You  belong  to 
another  generation,  Elizabeth,  and  he  doesn't 
look  it." 

I  knew  what  she  meant.  I  had  thought  the  same 
thing  when  I  first  saw  him  walking  up  the  aisle. 
"  He  has  asked  us  to  lunch  with  him  to-morrow  on 
his  boat." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  mentioned  it. 
Somehow  I  had  not  cared  to  speak  of  it  before 
Anthony. 

She  showed  her  surprise.  "  So  soon?  Doesn't 
that  sound  a  little — pushing?  " 

"  It  sounds  as  if  he  goes  after  a  thing  when  he 
wants  it." 

"  Yes,  it  does.  I  believe  I  should  like  to  accept. 

51 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

But  I  can't  to-morrow.  There's  a  clambake,  and  I 
have  promised  the  crowd." 

"  He  will  ask  you  again." 

"Will  he?  You  can  say  'yes'  for  Wednesday 
then.  And  I'll  keep  it." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  we  had  better  accept." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  there's  Anthony." 

She  slid  from  the  bed  and  stood  looking  down 
at  me.  "  You  think  he  wouldn't  like  it?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  wouldn't.  And,  after  all,  you 
are  engaged  to  him,  Nancy." 

"  Of  course  I  am,  but  he  is  not  my  jailer.  He 
does  as  he  pleases  and  I  do  as  I  please." 

"  In  my  day  lovers  pleased  to  do  the  same 
thing." 

"  Did  they?  I  don't  believe  it.  They  just  pre- 
tended, and  there  is  no  pretense  between  Anthony 
and  me  " — she  stooped  and  kissed  me — "  they  just 
pretended,  Elizabeth,  and  the  reason  that  I  love 
Anthony  is  because  we  don't  pretend." 

After  that  I  felt  that  I  need  fear  nothing. 
Nancy  and  Anthony — freedom  and  self-confidence — 
why  should  I  try  to  match  their  ideals  with  my 
own  of  yesterday?  Yet,  as  I  laid  my  book  aside,  I 
resolved  that  Olaf  should  know  of  Anthony. 

I  had  my  opportunity  the  next  day.  Olaf  came 
over  to  sit  in  my  garden  and  again  we  had  tea.  He 

52 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

was  much  pleased  when  he  knew  that  Nancy  and  I 
would  be  his  guests  on  Wednesday. 

"  Come  early.  Do  you  swim?  We  can  run  the 
launch  to  the  beach — or,  better  still,  dive  in  the 
deeper  water  near  my  boat." 

"  Nancy  swims,"  I  told  him.  "  I  don't.  And  I 
am  not  sure  that  we  can  come  early.  Nancy  and 
Anthony  usually  play  golf  in  the  morning." 

"  Who  is  Anthony?  " 

"Anthony  Peak.  The  man  she  is  going  to 
marry." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said,  "  Bring  him, 
too."  His  direct  gaze  met  mine,  and  his  direct 
question  followed.  "  Does  she  love  him?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  It  is  not  always  *  of  course.' J  He  stopped  and 
talked  of  other  things,  but  in  some  subtle  fashion  I 
was  aware  that  my  news  had  been  a  shock  to  him, 
and  that  he  was  trying  to  adjust  himself  to  it,  and 
to  the  difference  that  it  must  make  in  his  attitude 
toward  Nancy. 

When  I  told  Nancy  that  Anthony  had  been  in- 
vited, she  demanded,  "How  did  Olaf  Thoresen 
know  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  you  were  engaged." 

"  But  why,  Elizabeth?  Why  shout  it  from  the 
housetops?  " 

53 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  Well,  I  didn't  want  him  to  be  hurt." 

"  You  are  taking  a  lot  for  granted." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "We  won't  quarrel, 
and  a  party  of  four  is  much  nicer  than  three." 

As  it  turned  out,  however,  Anthony  could  not  go. 
He  was  called  back  to  Boston  on  business.  That 
was  where  Fate  again  stepped  in.  It  was,  I  am 
sure,  those  three  days  of  Anthony's  absence  which 
turned  the  scale  of  Nancy's  destiny.  If  he  had 
been  with  us  that  first  morning  on  the  boat  Olaf 
would  not  have  dared.  .  >  . 

Nancy  wore  her  white  linen  and  her  gray-velvet 
coat,  and  a  hat  with  a  gull's  wing.  She  carried 
her  bathing  suit.  "  He  intends,  evidently,  to  enter- 
tain us  in  his  own  way." 

Olaf 's  yacht  was  modern,  but  there  was  a  hint  of 
the  barbaric  in  its  furnishings.  The  cabin  into 
which  we  were  shown  and  in  which  Nancy  was  to 
change  was  in  strangely  carved  wood,  and  there 
was  a  wolfskin  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  low  bed. 
The  coverlet  was  of  a  fine-woven  red-silk  cloth, 
weighed  down  by  a  border  of  gold  and  silver 
threads.  On  the  wall  hung  a  square  of  tapestry 
which  showed  a  strange  old  ship  with  sails  of  blue 
and  red  and  green,  and  with  golden  dragon-heads 
at  stem  and  stern. 

Nancy,  crossing  the  threshold,  said  to  Olaf,  who 
had  opened  the  door  for  us,  "  It  is  like  coming  into 

54 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

another  world ;  as  if  you  had  set  the  stage,  run  up 
the  curtain,  and  the  play  had  begun." 

"  You  like  it?  It  was  a  fancy  of  mine  to  copy  a 
description  I  found  in  an  old  book.  King  Olaf, 
the  Thick-set,  furnished  a  room  like  this  for  his 
bride." 

Olaf,  the  Thick-set !  The  phrase  fitted  perfectly 
this  strong,  stocky,  blue-eyed  man,  who  smiled  radi- 
antly upon  us  as  he  shut  the  door  and  left  us 
alone. 

Nancy  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  looking 
about  her.  "  I  like  it,"  she  said,  with  a  queer  shake 
in  her  voice.  "  Don't  you,  Elizabeth?  " 

I  liked  it  so  much  that  I  felt  it  wise  to  hide  my 
pleasure  in  a  pretense  of  indifference.  "  Well,  it  is 
original  to  say  the  least." 

But  it  was  more  than  original,  it  was  poetic.  It 
was — Melisande  in  the  wood — one  of  Sinding's 
haunting  melodies,  an  old  Saga  caught  and  fixed  in 
color  and  carving. 

In  this  glowing  room  Nancy  in  her  white  and 
gray  was  a  cold  and  incongruous  figure,  and  when 
at  last  she  donned  her  dull  cap,  and  the  dull  cloak 
that  she  wore  over  her  swimming  costume,  she 
seemed  a  ghostly  shadow  of  the  bright  bride  whom 
that  other  Olaf  had  brought — a  thousand  years 
before — to  his  strange  old  ship. 

I  realize  that  what  comes  hereafter  in  this  record 

55 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

must  seem  to  the  unimaginative  overdrawn.  Even 
now,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  it  has  a  dream  quality, 
as  if  it  might  never  have  happened,  or  as  if,  as 
Nancy  had  said,  it  was  part  of  a  play,  which  would 
be  over  when  the  curtain  was  rung  down  and  the 
actors  had  returned  to  the  commonplace. 

But  the  actors  in  this  drama  have  never  returned 
to  the  commonplace.  Or  have  they?  Shall  I  ever 
know?  I  hope  I  may  never  know,  if  Nancy  and 
Olaf  have  lost  the  glamour  of  their  dreams. 

Well,  we  found  Olaf  on  deck  waiting  for  us.  In 
a  sea-blue  tunic,  with  strong  white  arms,  and  the 
dazzling  fairness  of  his  strong  neck,  he  was  more 
than  ever  like  the  figurehead  on  the  old  ship  that  I 
had  seen  in  my  childhood.  He  carried  over  his  arm 
a  cloak  of  the  same  sea-blue.  It  was  this  cloak 
which  afterward  played  an  important  part  in  the 
mystery  of  Nancy's  disappearance. 

His  quick  glance  swept  Nancy — the  ghostly 
Nancy  in  gray,  with  only  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  and 
that  touch  of  artificial  pink  in  her  cheeks  to  re- 
deem her  from  somberness.  He  shook  his  head 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  Why  do 
you  deaden  your  beauty  with  dull  colors?  " 

Nancy's  eyes  challenged  him.  "If  it  is  dead- 
ened, how  do  you  know  it  is  beauty?  " 

"May  I  show  you?"  Again  there  was  that 

56 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

tense  excitement  which.  I  had  noticed  in  the  gar- 
den. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  yet  in  that  mo- 
ment the  color  ran  up  from  her  neck  to  her  chin, 
the  fixed  pink  spots  were  lost  in  a  rush  of  lovely 
flaming  blushes. 

For  with  a  sudden  movement  he  had  snatched 
off  her  cap,  and  had  thrown  the  cloak  around  her. 
The  transformation  was  complete.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  waved  a  wand.  There  she  stood,  the  two  long, 
thick  braids,  which  she  had  worn  pinned  close  un- 
der her  cap,  falling  heavily  like  molten  metal  to 
her  knees,  the  blue  cloak  covering  her — heavenly  in 
color,  matching  her  eyes,  matching  the  sea,  match- 
ing the  sky,  matching  the  eyes  of  Olaf. 

I  think  I  must  have  uttered  some  sharp  exclama- 
tion, for  Olaf  turned  to  me.  "  You  see,"  he  said, 
triumphantly,  "I  have  known  it  all  the  time.  I 
knew  it  the  first  time  that  I  saw  her  in  the  garden." 

Xancy  had  recovered  herself.  "  But  I  can't  stalk 
around  the  streets  in  a  blue  cloak  with  my  hair 
down." 

He  laughed  with  her.  "Oh,  no,  no.  But  the 
color  is  only  a  symbol.  "  Modern  life  has  robbed  you 
of  vivid  things.  Even  your  emotions.  You  are — 

afraid "    He  caught  himself  up.     "We  can 

talk  of  that  after  our  swim.    I  think  we  shall  have 
a  thousand  things  to  talk  about." 

57 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Nancy  held  out  her  hand  for  her  cap,  but  he 
would  not  give  it  to  her.  "  Why  should  you  care 
if  your  hair  gets  wet?  The  wind  and  the  sun  will 
dry  it " 

I  was  amazed  when  I  saw  that  she  was  letting 
him  have  his  way.  Never  for  a  moment  had  An- 
thony mastered  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Nancy  was  dominated  by  a  will  that  was  stronger 
than  her  own. 

I  sat  on  deck  and  watched  them  as  they  swam 
like  two  young  sea  gods,  Nancy's  bronze  hair  bright 
under  the  sun.  Olaf's  red-gold  crest.  .  .  . 

The  blue  cloak  lay  across  my  knee.  Nancy  had 
cast  it  off  as  she  had  descended  into  the  launch. 
I  had  examined  it  and  had  found  it  of  soft,  thick 
wool,  with  embroidery  of  a  strange  and  primitive 
sort  in  faded  colors.  Yet  the  material  of  the  cloak 
had  not  faded,  or,  if  it  had,  there  remained  that 
clear  azure,  like  the  Virgin's  cloak  in  old  pictures. 

I  knew  now  why  Olaf  had  wanted  Nancy  on 
board,  why  he  had  wanted  to  swim  with  her  in  the 
sea  which  was  as  blue  as  her  eyes  and  his  own.  It 
was  to  reveal  her  to  himself  as  the  match  of  the 
women  of  the  Sagas.  I  found  this  description  later 
in  one  of  the  old  books  in  the  ship's  library : 

Then  Hallgerd  was  sent  for,  and  came  with  two 
women.  She  wore  a  blue  woven  mantle  .  .  .  her 

58 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

hair  reached  down  to  her  waist  on  both  sides,  and  she 
tucked  it  under  her  belt. 

And  there  was,  too,  this  account  of  a  housewife  in 
her  "  kyrtil  " : 

The  dress-train  was  trailing, 

The  skirt  had  a  blue  tint ; 

Her  bro\r  was  brighter, 

Her  neck  was  whiter 

Than  pure  new  fallen  snow. 

In  other  words,  that  one  glance  at  Nancy  in  tie 
garden,  when  he  had  risen  at  her  entrance,  had  dis- 
closed to  Olaf  the  fundamental  in  her.  He  had 
known  her  as  a  sea-maiden.  And  she  had  not 
known  it,  nor  I,  nor  Anthony. 

Luncheon  was  served  on  deck.  We  were  waited 
on  by  fair-haired,  but  very  modern  Norsemen.  The 
crew  on  The  Viking  were  all  Scandinavians.  Most 
of  them  spoke  English,  and  there  seemed  nothing 
uncommon  about  any  of  them.  Yet,  in  the  mood 
of  the  moment,  I  should  have  felt  no  surprise  had 
they  served  us  in  the  skins  of  wild  animals,  or  had 
set  sail  like  pirates  with  the  two  of  us  captive  on 
board. 

I  will  confess,  also,  to  a  feeling  of  exaltation 
which  clouded  my  judgment.  I  knew  that  Olaf 
was  falling  in  love  with  Nancy,  and  I  half  guessed 
that  Nancy  might  be  falling  in  love  with  Olaf,  yet 

69 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

I  sat  there  and  let  them,  do  it.  If  Anthony  should 
ever  know!  Yet  how  can  hn  know?  As  I  weigh 
it  now,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  anything  with 
which  to  reproach  myself,  for  the  end,  at  times, 
justifies  the  means,  and  the  Jesuitical  theory  had 
its  origin,  perhaps,  in  the  profound  knowledge  that 
Fate  does  not  always  use  fair  methods  in  gaining 
her  ends. 

I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  what  we  talked  about. 
Nancy  had  dried  her  hair,  and  it  was  wound 
loosely,  high  on  her  head.  The  blue  cloak  was  over 
her  shoulders,  and  she  was  the  loveliest  thing  that 
I  ever  hope  to  see.  By  the  flame  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  light  in  her  eyes,  I  was  made  aware  of  an  ex- 
altation which  matched  my  own.  She,  too,  was 
caught  up  into  the  atmosphere  of  excitement  which 
Olaf  created.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her. 
I  wondered  what  Anthony  would  have  said  could 
he  have  visioned  for  the  moment  this  blue-and-gold 
enchantress. 

When  coffee  was  served  there  were  no  cigarettes 
or  cigars.  Nancy  had  her  own  silver  case  hanging 
at  her  belt.  I  knew  that  she  would  smoke,  and  I 
did  not  try  to  stop  her.  She  always  smoked  after 
her  meals  and  she  was  restless  without  it. 

It  was  Olaf  who  stopped  her.  "You  will  hate 
my  bad  manners,"  he  said,  with  his  gaze  holding 
hers,  "  but  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

60 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

She  was  lighting  her  own  little  wax  taper  and  she 
looked  her  surprise. 

"  My  cigarette?  " 

He  nodded.     "  You  are  too  lovely." 

"  But  surely  you  are  not  so — old-fashioned." 

"  No.  I  am  perhaps  so — new-fashioned  that  my 
reason  might  take  your  breath  away."  He  laughed 
but  did  not  explain. 

Nancy  sat  undecided  while  the  taper  burned  out 
futilely.  Then  she  said,  "  Of  course  you  are  my 
host " 

"  Don't  do  it  for  that  reason.  Do  it  because  " — 
he  stopped,  laughed  again,  and  went  on — "  because 
you  are  a  goddess — a  woman  of  a  new  race " 

With  parted  lips  she  looked  at  him,  then  tried 
to  wrench  herself  back  to  her  attitude  of  light  in- 
difference. 

"  Oh,  we've  grown  beyond  all  that." 

"All  what?" 

"  Goddess-women.  We  are  just  nice  and  human 
together." 

"  You  are  nice  and  human.  But  you  are  more 
than  that." 

Nancy  put  her  unlighted  cigarette  back  in  its 
case.  "  I'll  keep  it  for  next  time,"  she  said,  with 
a  touch  of  defiance. 

"  There  will  be  no  next  time,"  was  his  secure 

61 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

response,  and  Ms  eyes  held  hers  until,  with  an 
effort,  she  withdrew  her  gaze. 

Then  he  rose,  and  his  men  placed  deep  chairs  for 
us  in  a  sheltered  corner,  where  we  could  look  out 
across  the  blue  to  the  low  hills  of  the  moor.  There 
was  a  fur  rug  over  my  chair,  and  I  sank  gratefully 
into  the  warmth  of  it. 

"With  a  wind  like  this  in  the  old  days,"  Olaf 
said,  as  he  stood  beside  me  looking  out  over  the 
sparkling  water,  "how  the  sails  would  have  been 
spread,  and  now  there  is  nothing  but  steam  and 
gasoline  and  electricity." 

"  Why  don't  you  have  sails  then,"  Nancy  chal- 
lenged him,  "  instead  of  steam?  " 

"I  have  a  ship.  Shall  I  show  you  the  picture 
of  it?  " 

He  left  to  get  it,  and  Nancy  said  to  me,  "  Ducky, 
will  you  pinch  me?  " 

"  You  mean  that  it  doesn't  seem  real?  " 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  maybe  it  isn't.  He  said  he  was  a  sort 
of  Flying  Dutchman." 

"  I  should  hate  to  think  that  he  wasn't  real, 
Elizabeth.  He  is  as  alive  as  a — burning  coal." 

Olaf  came  back  with  the  pictures  of  his  ship,  a 
clean-cut,  beautiful  craft,  very  up-to-date,  except 
for  the  dragon-heads  at  prow  and  stem. 

"  If  I  could  have  had  my  way,"  he  told  us,  "  I 

62 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

should  have  built  it  like  the  ship  on  the  tapestry 
in  there — but  it  wasn't  practical — we  haven't  man- 
power for  the  oars  in  these  days." 

He  had  other  pictures — of  a  strange  house,  or, 
rather,  of  a  collection  of  buildings  set  in  the  form 
of  a  quadrangle,  and  inclosed  by  low  walls.  There 
were  great  gateways  of  carved  wood  with  ironwork 
and  views  of  the  interior — a  wide  hall  with  fire- 
places— a  raised  platform,  with  carved  seats  that 
gave  a  throne-like  effect.  The  house  stood  on  a  sort 
of  high  peninsula  with  a  forest  back  of  it,  and  the 
sea  spreading  out  beyond. 

"The  house  looks  old,"  Olaf  said,  "but  I 
planned  it." 

He  had,  he  explained,  during  one  of  his  voyages, 
come  upon  a  hidden  harbor.  "  There  is  only  a 
fishing  village  and  a  few  small  boats  at  the  land- 
ing place,  but  the  people  claim  to  be  descendants 
of  the  vikings.  They  are  utterly  isolated,  but  a 
God-fearing,  hardy  folk. 

"  It  is  strangely  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  I  call  it  '  The  Hidden  Land.'  It  is  not  on 
any  map.  I  have  looked  and  have  not  found  it." 

"But  why,"  was  Nancy's  demand,  "did  you 
build  there?  " 

It  was  a  question,  I  think,  for  which  he  had 
waited.  "  Some  day  I  may  tell  you,  but  not  now, 
except  this — that  I  love  the  sea,  and  I  shall  end  my 

63 


days  where,  when  I  open  my  gates,  my  eyes  may 
rest  upon  it  ...  where  its  storms  may  beat 
upon  my  roof,  and  where  the  men  about  me  shall 
sail  it,  and  get  their  living  from  it. 

"  I  have  told  your  cousin,"  he  went  on,  "  some- 
thing of  the  life  of  my  grandfather  and  of  my 
father.  With  all  of  their  sea-blood,  they  were  shut 
away  for  two  generations  from  the  sea.  Can  you 
grasp  the  meaning  of  that  to  me? — the  heritage  of 
suppressed  longings?  I  think  my  father  must  have 
felt  it  as  I  did,  for  he  drank  heavily  before  he  died. 
My  grandfather  sought  an  outlet  in  founding  the 
family  fortunes.  But  when  I  came,  there  was  not 
the  compelling  force  of  poverty  to  make  me  work, 
and  I  had  before  me  the  warning  of  my  father's 
excesses.  But  this  sea-madness !  It  has  driven  me 
on  and  on,  and  at  last  it  has  driven  me  here."  He 
stopped,  then  took  up  the  theme  again  in  his  tense, 
excited  fashion,  "  It  will  drive  me  on  again." 

"  Why  should  it  drive  you  on?  " 

When  Nancy  asked  that  question,  I  knew  what 
had  happened.  The  thrill  of  her  voice  was  the 
answer  of  a  bird  to  its  mate.  When  I  think  of  her, 
I  see  her  always  as  she  was  then,  the  blue  cloak 
falling  about  her,  her  hair  blowing,  her  cheeks  flam- 
ing with  lovely  color. 

I  saw  his  fingers  clench  the  arm  of  his  chair  as  if 
in  an  effort  of  self-control.  Then  he  said:  "Per- 

64 


THE  HIDDEN  I^AND 

haps  I  shall  tell  you  that,  too.  But  not  now."  He 
rose  abruptly.  "  It  is  warmer  inside,  and  we  can 
have  some  music.  I  am  sure  you  must  be  tired  of 
hearing  me  talk  about  myself." 

He  played  for  us,  in  masterly  fashion,  the  Peer 
Gynt  suite,  and  after  that  a  composition  of  his 
own.  At  last  he  sang,  with  all  the  swing  of  the 
sea  in  voice  and  accompaniment,  and  the  song  drew 
our  hearts  out  of  us. 

Nancy  was  very  quiet  as  we  drove  from  the  pier, 
and  it  was  while  I  was  dressing  for  dinner  that  she 
came  into  my  room. 

"  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  sure  whether 
we  have  been  to  a  Methodist  revival  or  to  a  Wagner 
music-drama " 

"  Neither,"  I  told  her.  "  There's  nothing  arti- 
ficial about  him.  You  asked  me  back  there  if  he 
was  real.  I  believe  that  he  is  utterly  real,  Nancy. 
It  is  not  a  pose.  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  not  a 
pose." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  that's  the  queer  thing.  He's 
not — putting  it  on — and  he  makes  everybody  else 
seem — stale  and  shallow — like  ghosts — or — shadow- 
shapes  " 

I  read  Vanity  Fair  late  into  the  night,  and  the 
morning  was  coming  on  before  I  tried  to  sleep.  I 
waked  to  find  Nancy  standing  by  my  bed. 

65 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  His  boat  is  gone." 

"  Gone?  " 

"  Yes.  It  went  an  hour  ago.  I  saw  it  from  the 
roof." 

"  From  the  roof?  " 

"Yes.  I  got  up — early.  I — I  could  not  sleep. 
And  when  I  looked — it  was  gone — your  glasses 
showed  it  almost  out  of  sight." 

She  was  wrapped  in  the  blue  cloak.  Olaf  had 
made  her  bring  it  with  her.  She  had  protested. 
But  he  had  been  insistent. 

"I  found  this  in  the  pocket,"  Nancy  said,  and 
held  out  a  card  on  which  Olaf  had  written,  "  When 
she  lifted  her  arms,  opening  the  door,  a  light  shone 
on  them  from  the  sea,  and  the  air  and  all  the  world 
were  brightened  for  her." 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Elizabeth?  " 

"  I  think  you  know,  my  dear." 

"That  he  cares?" 

"  What  do  you  think?  " 

Her  eyes  were  like  stars.  "But  how  can  he? 
He  has  seen  me — twice " 

"  Some  men  are  like  that." 

"  If  you  only  hadn't  told  him  about  Anthony." 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  told  him." 

"  Oh,  but  he  might  have  stayed." 

"Well?" 

"And  I  might  have  loved  him."    She  was  still 

66 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

glowing  with  the  fires  that  Olaf  had  lighted  in 
her. 

"  But  you  are  going  to  marry  Anthony." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  marry  Anthony. 
I  am  going  to  flirt  and  smoke  cigarettes  and  let 
him — flirt — when  I  might  have  been  a — goddess." 

It  was  after  breakfast  on  the  same  day  that  a 
letter  came  to  me,  delivered  into  my  own  hands  by 
messenger.  It  was  from  Olaf,  and  he  left  it  to  me 
whether  Nancy  should  see  it.  It  covered  many 
pages  and  it  shook  my  soul,  but  I  did  not  show  it 
to  Nancy. 

There  were  nights  after  that  when  I  found  it 
hard  to  sleep,  nights  in  which  I  thought  of  Olaf 
sailing  toward  the  hidden  land,  holding  in  his  heart 
a  hope  which  it  was  in  my  power  to  crown  with 
realization  or  dash  to  the  ground.  Yet  I  had 
Nancy's  happiness  to  think  of,  and,  in  a  sense, 
Anthony's.  It  seemed  almost  incredible  that  I 
must  carry,  too,  on  my  heart,  the  burden  of  the 
happiness  of  Olaf  Thoresen. 

When  Anthony  came  back,  he  and  Nancy  were 
caught  in  a  net  of  engagements,  and  I  saw  very 
little  of  them.  Of  course  they  romped  in  now  and 
then  with  their  own  particular  crowd,  and  treated 
me,  as  it  were,  to  a  cross-section  of  modern  life. 
Except  for  two  things,  I  should  have  judged  that 
Nancy  had  put  away  all  thoughts  of  Olaf,  but  these 

67 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

two  things  were  significant.  She  had  stopped 
smoking,  and  she  no  longer  touched  her  cheeks  with 
artificial  bloom. 

Anthony's  amazement,  when  he  offered  her  a 
cigarette  and  she  refused,  had  in  it  a  touch  of 
irritation.  "  But,  my  dear  girl,  why  not?  " 

"  Well,  I  have  to  think  of  my  complexion, 
Tony." 

I  think  he  knew  it  was  not  that  and  was  puzzled. 
"  I  never  saw  you  looking  better  in  my  life." 

She  was  wearing  a  girdle  of  blue  with  her  clear, 
crisp  white,  and  her  fairness  was  charming.  She 
had,  indeed,  the  look  which  belongs  to  young  Cath- 
olic girls  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  who  wear  her 
colors. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  Anthony  had  been 
home  for  a  week  that  he  saw  the  blue  cloak.  We 
were  all  on  the  beach — Mind  Sears  and  Bob  Xeed- 
ham  and  the  Drakes,  myself  and  Anthony.  Xancy 
was  late,  having  a  foursome  to  finish  on  the  golf 
grounds.  She  came  at  last,  threading  her  way 
gayly  through  the  crowd  of  bathers.  She  was  with- 
out her  cap,  and  her  hair  was  wound  in  a  thick 
braid  about  her  head.  I  saw  people  turning  to 
look  at  her  as  they  had  never  turned  to  look  when 
she  had  worn  her  shadowy  gray. 

"  Great  guns !  "  said  a  man  back  of  me.  "  What 
a  beauty ! " 

68 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

A  deep  flush  stained  Anthony's  face,  and  I  knew 
at  once  that  he  did  not  like  it.  It  was  as  if,  having 
attuned  his  taste  to  the  refinement  of  a  Japanese 
print,  he  had  been  called  upon  to  admire  a  Fra 
Angelico.  He  hated  the  obvious,  and  Nancy's  love- 
liness at  this  moment  was  as  definite  as  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  moon,  the  stars.  Later 
I  was  to  learn  that  Anthony's  taste  was  for  a 
sophisticated  Nancy,  a  mocking  Nancy,  a  slim, 
mysterious  creature,  with  charms  which  were 
caviar  to  the  mob. 

But  Bob  Needham  spoke  from  the  depths  of  his 
honest  and  undiscriminating  soul.  "Heavens! 
Nancy.  Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  Get  what?  " 

"  That  cloak." 

"  Do  you  like  it?  " 

"Like  it !    I  wish  Tony  would  run  away 

while  I  tell  you." 

Anthony,  forcing  a  smile,  asked,  "Where  did 
you  get  it,  Nan?  " 

"  It  was  given  to  me."  She  sat  down  on  the 
sand  and  smiled  at  him. 

Mrs.  Drake,  feeling  the  thickness  and  softness, 
exclaiming  over  the  embroidery,  said  finally :  "  It 
is  a  splendid  thing.  Like  a  queen's  robe." 

"You  haven't  told  us  yet,"  Anthony  persisted, 
"  where  you  got  it." 

69 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"No?  Well,  Elizabeth  will  tell  you.  It's 
rather  a  long  story.  I  am  going  into  the  water. 
Come  on,  Bob." 

She  left  the  cloak  with  me.  Anthony  followed 
her  and  the  others.  I  sat  alone  under  a  great 
orange  umbrella  and  wondered  if  Anthony  would 
ask  me  about  the  cloak. 

He  did  not,  and  when  Nancy  came  back  finally 
with  her  hair  down  and  blowing  in  the  wind  to  dry, 
Anthony  was  with  her.  The  cloud  was  gone  from 
his  face,  in  the  battle  with  the  waves  he  had  for- 
gotten his  vexation. 

But  he  remembered  when  he  saw  the  cloak. 
"  Tell  me  about  it,  Nancy." 

"  I  got  it  from  Elizabeth's  viking." 

That  was  the  calm  way  in  which  she  put  it. 

"  He  isn't  my  viking,"  I  told  her. 

"  Well,  you  were  responsible  for  him." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  Anthony  demanded, 
"  that  you  accepted  a  gift  like  that  from  a  man  you 
didn't  know?  " 

Nancy,  hugging  herself  in  the  cloak,  said,  "I 
felt  that  I  knew  him  very  well." 

"  How  long  was  he  here?  " 

"  Three  days.     I  saw  him  twice." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  like  the — idea "  An- 
thony began,  then  broke  off.  "  Of  course  you  have 
a  right  to  do  as  you  please." 

70 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

"  Of  course,"  said  Nancy,  with,  a  flame  in  her 
cheek. 

"  But  it  would  please  me  very  much  if  you  would 
send  it  back  to  him." 

"  If  I  wanted  to,"  she  told  Mm,  "  I  couldn't." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Can  you  mail  parcel  post  packages  to  the — 
Flying  Dutchman?  Or  express  things  to — to 
Odin?  " 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,  Nancy." 

"  Well,  he  sailed  in  and  he  sailed  out.  He  didn't 
leave  any  address.  He  left  the  cloak — and  a  rather 
intriguing  memory,  Anthony." 

That  was  all  the  satisfaction  she  would  give  him. 
And  I  am  not  sure  that  he  deserved  more  at  her 
hands.  The  agreement  between  them  had  been — 
absolute  freedom. 

I  am  convinced  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
garden  party  I  should  never  have  shown  Olaf's 
letter  to  Nancy.  The  garden  party  is  an  annual 
event.  We  always  hold  it  in  August,  when  the 
"  off-islanders  "  crowd  the  hotels,  and  when  money 
is  more  plentiful  than  at  any  other  time  during  the 
year. 

Nancy  had  charge  of  the  fish  pond.  I  had 
helped  her  to  make  the  fish,  which  were  gay  objects 
of  painted  paper,  numbered  to  indicate  a  corre- 

71 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

spending  prize  package,  and  to  be  caught  with,  a 
dangling  line  from  a  lily-wreathed  artificial  pool. 

The  day  of  the  garden  party  was  a  glorious  one — 
with  the  air  so  clear  that  the  flying  pennants  of 
the  decorated  booths,  and  the  gowns  of  the  women, 
gained  brilliancy  and  beauty  from  the  shining  at- 
mosphere. 

Nancy  wore  a  broad  blue  hat  which  matched  her 
eyes,  one  of  her  clear  white  dresses,  and  a  silken 
scarf  of  the  same  blue  as  her  hat.  She  loved  chil- 
dren, and  as  she  stood  in  a  circle  of  them  all  the 
afternoon,  untiring,  eager — bending  down  to  them, 
hooking  the  fish  on  the  dangling  line — handing  out 
the  prizes,  smiling  into  the  flushed  eager  faces, 
helping  the  very  littlest  ones  to  achieve  a  catch,  I 
sat  in  a  chair  not  far  away  from  her  and  watched. 
I  saw  Anthony  come  and  go,  urging  her  to  let  some 
one  else  take  her  place,  pressing  a  dozen  reasons 
upon  her  for  desertion  of  her  task,  and  coming 
back,  when  she  refused,  to  complain  to  me : 

"  Such  things  are  a  deadly  bore." 

"  Not  to  Nancy." 

"But  they  used  to  be.  She's  changed,  Eliza- 
beth." 

"  Beautifully  changed." 

"  I  am  not  sure.  She  was  always  such  a  good 
sport." 

"And  isn't  she  now?  " 

72 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

"  Slie  is  different,"  lie  caught  himself  up,  "  but. 
of  course — adorable." 

Mimi  Sears  joined  us,  and  she  and  Anthony  went 
off  together.  Bob  Needham  hung  around  Nancy 
until  she  sent  him  away.  At  last  the  hour  arrived 
for  the  open-air  play  which  was  a  special  attrac- 
tion, and  the  crowds  surged  toward  the  inclosure. 
The  booths  were  deserted,  and  only  one  rapturous 
child  remained  by  the  fish  pond. 

Nancy  sat  down  and  lifted  the  baby  to  her  lap. 
She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  her  blue  scarf  fell 
about  her.  Something  tugged  at  my  heart  as  I 
looked  at  her.  With  that  little  head  in  the  hollow 
of  her  arm  she  was  the  eternal  mother. 

I  saw  Anthony  approaching.  He  stopped,  and  I 
caught  his  words.  "  You  must  come  now,  Nancy. 
I  am  saving  a  seat  for  you." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  looked  down  at  the 
child.  "I  told  his  nurse  to  go  and  he  is  almost 
asleep." 

He  flung  himself  away  from  her  and  came  over 
to  me.  "  I  have  good  seats  for  both  of  you  in  the 
enclosure.  But  Nancy  won't  go." 

I  rose  and  went  with  him,  although  I  should  have 
been  content  to  sit  there  by  the  fish  pond  and  feast 
my  eyes  on  Nancy. 

"It  is  perfectly  silly  of  her  to  stay,"  Anthony 
fumed  as  we  walked  on  together. 

73 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

"  But  she  loves  the  children." 

"  I  hate  children." 

I  am  sure  that  he  did  not  mean  it.  What  he 
hated  was  the  fact  that  the  child  had  for  the  mo- 
ment held  Nancy  from  him.  It  was  as  if,  looking 
forward  into  the  future,  he  could  see  like  moments, 
and  set  himself  against  the  thought  of  any  inter- 
ruption of  what  might  be  otherwise  an  untram- 
meled  and  independent  partnership.  He  had,  I 
think,  little  jealousy  where  men  were  concerned. 
He  was  willing  to  give  Nancy  the  reins  and  let  her 
go,  believing  that  she  would  inevitably  come  back 
to  him.  He  was  not,  perhaps,  so  willing  to  trust 
her  with  ties  which  might  prove  more  absorbing 
than  himself. 

If  I  had  not  had  Olaf's  letter,  I  might  not 
have  weighed  Anthony's  attitude  so  carefully,  but 
against  those  burning  words  and  their  comprehen- 
sion of  the  divinity  and  beauty  of  my  Nancy's  na- 
ture, Anthony's  querulous  complaint  struck  cold. 

I  think  it  was  then,  as  we  walked  toward  the  in- 
closure,  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  let  Nancy  hear 
what  Olaf  had  to  say  to  her. 

She  stayed  out  late  that  night — there  was  a  din- 
ner and  a  dance — and  Anthony  brought  her  home. 
I  confess  that  I  felt  like  a  traitor  as  I  heard  the 
murmur  of  his  voice  in  the  hall. 

But  when  he  had  gone,  and  Nancy  passed  my 

74 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

door  on  her  way  to  her  room,  I  called  her,  and  she 
came  in. 

I  was  in  bed,  and  I  had  the  letter  in  my  hand. 
"  I  want  you  to  read  it,"  I  said.  "  It  is  from  Olaf 
Thoresen." 

She  looked  at  it,  and  asked,  "When  did  it 
come?  " 

"  Two  months  ago.     The  day  that  he  left." 

"  Why  haven't  you  shown  it  to  me?  " 

"  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind.  I  do  not  know 
even  now  that  I  am  right  in  letting  you  see  it. 
But  I  feel  that  you  have  a  right  to  see  it.  It  is  you 
who  must  answer  it.  Not  I." 

When  she  had  gone,  I  turned  to  the  chapter  in 
my  book  where  Becky  weeps  crocodile  tears  over 
poor  Eawdon  Crawley  on  the  night  before  Water- 
loo. There  is  no  scene  in  modern  literature  to 
match  it.  But  I  couldn't  get  my  mind  on  it. 
Nancy  was  reading  Olaf's  letter! 

I  kept  a  copy  of  it,  and  here  it  is : 

"  I  knew  when  I  first  saw  her  in  the  garden  that 
she  was  the  One  Woman.  I  had  wanted  sea-blood, 
and  when  she  came,  ready  for  a  dip  in  the  sea,  it 
seemed  a  sign.  One  knows  these  things  somehow, 
and  I  knew.  I  shan't  attempt  to  explain  it. 

"  When  you  told  me  of  her  lover,  I  felt  that  Fate 
had  played  a  trick  on  me.  I  could  not  now  with 
honor  pursue  the  woman  who  was  promised  to  an- 

75 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

other.  Yet  I  permitted  myself  that  one  day — the 
day  on  my  boat. 

"  I  learned  in  those  hours  that  I  spent  with  her 
that  she  had  been  molded  by  the  man  she  is  to 
marry  and  that  in  the  years  to  come  she  will  shrink 
to  the  measure  of  his  demands  upon  her.  She  is 
feminine  enough  to  be  swayed  by  masculine  will. 
That  is  at  once  her  strength  and  her  weakness. 
Loving  a  man  who  will  love  her  for  the  wonder  of 
her  womanhood,  she  will  fulfill  her  greatest  des- 
tiny. Loving,  on  the  other  hand,  one  who  aspires 
only  to  fit  her  into  some  attenuated  social  scheme, 
she  will  wither  and  fade.  I  think  you  know  that 
this  is  true,  that  you  will  not  accuse  me  of  being 
unfair  to  any  one. 

"And  now  may  I  tell  you  what  my  dreams  have 
been  for  her? 

"  I  am  not  young.  I  mean  I  am  past  those  hot 
and  early  years  when  men  play — Borneo.  The 
dream  that  is  mine  is  one  which  has  come  to  a  man 
of  thirty,  who,  having  seen  the  world,  has  weighed 
it  and  wants — something  more. 

"  I  have  told  you  of  my  house  in  that  hidden  land 
which  is  washed  by  the  sea.  I  want  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  days  there,  and  I  had  hoped  that  some 
woman  might  be  found  whose  love  of  life,  whose 
love  of  adventure,  whose  love  of  me,  might  be  so 
strong  that  she  would  see  nothing  strange  in  my 
demand  that  she  forsake  all  others  and  cleave  only 
to  me. 

"  By  forsaking  all  others,  I  mean,  literally,  what 
I  say.  I  should  want  to  cut  her  off  entirely  from 
all  former  ties.  To  let  any  one  into  our  secret,  to 

76 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

reveal  that  hidden  land  to  a  gaping  world,  would 
be  to  destroy  it.  We  should  be  followed,  tracked 
by  the  newspapers,  written  up,  judged  eccentric — 
mad.  And  I  do  not  wish  to  be  judged  at  all.  My 
separation  from  my  kind  would  have  in  it  more 
than  a  selfish  whim,  an  obsession  for  solitude.  I 
want  to  get  back  to  primitive  civilization.  I  want 
my  children  to  face  a  simpler  world  than  the  one 
I  faced.  Do  you  know  what  it  means  for  a  man 
to  inherit  money,  with  nothing  back  of  it  for  two 
generations  but  hard  work,  although  back  of  that 
there  were,  perhaps,  kings?  It  means  that  I  had, 
unaided,  to  fit  myself  into  a  social  scheme  so  com- 
plex that  I  have  not  yet  mastered  its  intricacies.  I 
do  not  want  to  master  them.  I  do  not  want  my 
sons  to  master  them.  I  want  them  to  find  life  a 
thing  of  the  day's  work,  the  day's  worship,  the  day's 
out-of-door  delights.  I  want  them  to  have  time  to 
think  and  to  dream.  And  then  some  day  they  shall 
come  back  if  they  wish  to  challenge  civilization — 
young  prophets,  perhaps,  out  of  the  wilderness- 
seeing  a  new  vision  of  God  and  man  because  of 
their  detachment  from  all  that  might  have  blinded 
them. 

"  I  have  a  feeling  that  your  Nancy  might,  if  she 
knew  this,  dream  with  me  of  a  new  race,  rising  to 
the  level  of  the  needs  of  a  new  world.  She  might 
see  herself  as  the  mother  of  such  a  race — sheltered 
in  my  hidden  land,  sailing  the  seas  with  me,  held 
close  to  my  heart.  I  think  I  am  a  masterful  man, 
but  I  should  be  masterful  only  to  keep  her  to  her 
best.  If  she  faltered  I  should  strengthen  her. 
And  I  should  make  her  happy.  I  know  that  I  could 

77 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

make  her  happy.    And  for  me  there  will  never  be 
another. 

"  I  am  leaving  it  to  you  to  decide  whether  you 
will  show  her  this.  I  want  her  to  see  it,  because  it 
seems  to  me  that  she  has  a  right  to  decide  between 
the  life  that  I  can  offer  her  and  the  life  she  must 
live  if  she  marries  Anthony  Peak.  But  it  all  in- 
volves a  point  of  honor  which  I  feel  that  I  am  not 
unprejudiced  enough  to  decide.  So  to-morrow  I 
shall  go  away.  I  shall  sail  far  in  the  two  months 
that  I  shall  give  myself  before  I  come  back.  And 
when  I  come,  you  will  let  me  know  whether  I  am 
to  turn  once  more  to  the  trackless  seas,  or  stay  to 
find  my  happiness." 

This  letter  when  I  had  first  read  it  had  stirred 
me  profoundly,  as  I  think  it  must  have  stirred  any 
man  or  woman  who  has  yearned  amid  the  com- 
plexities of  modern  existence  to  find  some  land  of 
dreams.  Even  to  my  island,  comparatively  un- 
touched by  the  problems  of  existence  in  crowded 
centers,  come  the  echoes  of  discord,  of  social  un- 
rest, of  political  upheavals,  of  commercial  greed. 
In  this  hidden  land  of  Olaf 's  would  be  life  stripped 
of  its  sordidness,  love  free  from  the  blight  of  cyni- 
cism and  disillusion — faith,  firm  in  its  nearness  to 
God  and  the  wonder  of  His  works.  I  envied  Olaf 
his  hidden  land  as  I  envied  Nancy  her  opportunity. 
My  blood  is  the  same  as  Nancy's,  and  I  love  the 
sea.  And  as  we  grow  older  our  souls  adventure! 

78 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

When  Nancy  came  in  to  me,  she  had  put  on  her 
white  peignoir,  and  she  had  Olaf's  letter  in  her 
hand. 

"  Ducky,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  shook,  "  I  have 
read  it  twice — and — I  shouldn't  dare  to  think  he 
was  in  earnest." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  should  want  to  go,  Elizabeth." 

"And  leave  the  world  behind  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  any  world.  It  might  be  different 
if  mother  were  alive,  or  daddy.  There'd  be  only 
you,  Ducky,  my  dear,  dear  Ducky."  She  caught 
my  hand  and  held  it. 

"And  Anthony " 

"Anthony  would  get  over  it" — sharply. 
"Wouldn't  he,  Elizabeth?  You  know  he  would." 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know." 

"  But  I  know.  If  I  hadn't  been  in  his  life,  Mimi 
Sears  would  have  been,  just  as  Bob  Needham  would 
have  been  in  my  life  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Anthony. 
There  isn't  any  question  between  Anthony  and  me 
of — one  woman  for  one  man.  You  know  that, 
Elizabeth.  But  with  Olaf — if  he  doesn't  have  me, 
there  will  be  no  one  else — ever.  He — he  will  go 
sailing  on — alone " 

"  My  dear,  how  do  you  know?  " 

She  flung  herself  down  beside  me,  a  white  rose, 
all  fragrance.  "  I  don't  know  " — she  began  to  cry. 

79 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

"  How  silly  I  am,"  she  sobbed  against  my  shoulder. 
"  I — I  don't  know  anything  about  him,  do  I,  Eliza- 
beth- — ?  But  it  would  be  wonderful  to  be 
loved— like  that." 

All  through  the  night  she  slept  on  my  arm,  with 
her  hand  curled  in  the  hollow  of  my  neck  as  she  had 
slept  as  a  child.  But  I  did  not  sleep.  My  mind 
leaped  forward  into  the  future,  and  I  saw  my 
world  without  her. 


Nancy  stayed  with  me  through  September.  An- 
thony's holiday  was  up  the  day  after  the  garden 
party,  and  he  went  back  to  Boston,  keeping  touch 
with  Nancy  in  the  modern  way  by  wire,  special  de- 
livery, and  long-distance  telephone. 

It  was  on  a  stormy  night  with  wind  and  beating 
rain  that  Nancy  told  me  Anthony  was  insisting  that 
she  marry  him  in  December. 

"  But  I  can't,  Elizabeth.  I  am  going  to  write  to 
him  to-night." 

"  When  will  it  be?  " 

"Who  knows?  I — I'm  not  ready.  If  he  can't 
wait — he  can  let  me  go." 

She  did  not  stay  to  listen  to  my  comment  on  her 
mutiny — she  swept  out  of  the  library  and  sat  down 
at  the  piano  in  the  other  room,  making  a  picture  of 
herself  between  the  tall  white  candles  which  il- 

80 


TEE  HIDDEN  LAND 

lumined  the  dark  mahogany  and  the  mulberry  bro- 
cades. 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and  watched  her,  her 
white  fingers  straying  over  the  keys,  her  thin  blue 
sleeves  flowing  back  from  her  white  arms.  Xow 
and  then  I  caught  a  familiar  melody  among  the 
chords,  and  once  I  was  aware  of  the  beat  and  the 
swing  of  the  waves  in  the  song  which  Olaf  had  once 
sung. 

She  did  not  finish  it.  She  rose  and  wandered  to 
the  window,  parting  the  curtain  and  looking  out 
into  the  streaming  night. 

"  It's  an  awful  storm,  Ducky." 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  On  nights  like  this  I  always 
think  of  the  old  days  when  the  men  were  on  the 
sea,  and  the  women  waited." 

"  I'd  rather  think  of  my  man  on  the  sea,  even  if 
I  had  to  wait  for  him,  Ducky,  than  shut  up  in  of- 
fice, stagnating." 

The  door-bell  rang  suddenly.  It  was  a  dreadful 
night  for  any  one  to  be  out,  but  Anita,  undis- 
turbed and  crisp  in  her  white  apron  and  cap,  came 
through  the  hall.  A  voice  asked  a  question,  and 
the  blood  began  to  pound  in  my  body.  Things  were 
blurred  for  a  bit,  and  when  my  vision  cleared — I 
saw  Olaf  in  the  shine  of  the  candles  in  the  room  be- 
yond, with  Nancy  crushed  to  him,  his  bright  head 
bent,  the  sheer  blue  of  her  frock  infolding  him — 

81 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

the  archway  of  the  door  framing  them  like  the 
figures  of  saints  in  the  stained  glass  of  a  church 
window ! 

I  knew  then  that  I  had  lost  her.  But  she  did 
not  yield  at  once. 

"  I  love  him,  of  course.  But  a  woman  couldn't 
do  a  thing  like  that,"  was  the  way  she  put  it  to 
me  the  next  morning. 

I  felt,  however,  that  Olaf  would  master  her. 
Will  was  set  against  will,  mind  against  mind. 
And  at  last  she  showed  him  the  way.  "A  thousand 
years  ago  you  would  have  carried  me  off." 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  caught  the  idea  and 
laughed  at  her.  "Whether  you  go  of  your  own 
accord  or  I  carry  you,  you  will  be  happy."  He 
lifted  her  in  his  strong  hands  as  if  she  were  a 
feather,  held  her,  kissed  her,  and  flashed  a  glance 
at  me.  "You  see  how  easy  it  would  be,  and 
there's  a  chaplain  on  board." 

There  is  not  much  more  to  tell.  Kancy  went 
down  one  morning  to  the  beach  for  her  bath — and 
the  fog  swallowed  her  up.  I  have  often  wondered 
whether  she  planned  it,  or  whether,  knowing  that 
she  would  be  there,  he  had  come  in  his  launch  and 
had  borne  her  away  struggling,  but  not,  I  am  sure, 
unwilling.  However  it  happened,  the  cloak  went 
with  her,  and  I  like  to  think  that  she  was  held  in 
his  arms,  wrapped  in  it,  when  they  reached  the  ship. 


THE  HIDDEN  LAND 

I  like  to  think,  too,  of  my  Nancy  in  the  glowing 
room  with  the  wolfskins  and  the  strange  old 
tapestry — and  the  storms  beating  helpless  against 
her  happiness. 

I  like  to  think  of  her  as  safe  in  that  hidden  land, 
where  most  of  us  fain  would  follow  her — the  mis- 
tress of  that  guarded  mansion,  the  wife  of  a  young 
sea  god,  the  mother  of  a  new  race. 

But,  most  of  all,  I  like  to  think  of  the  children. 
And  I  have  but  one  wish  for  a  long  life,  which 
might  otherwise  weigh  upon  me,  that  the  years  may 
briiig  back  to  the  world  those  prophets  from  a  hid- 
den land,  those  young  voices  crying  from  the  wilder- 
ness— the  children  of  Olaf  and  of  Nancy  Greer. 


81 


WHITE  BIRCHES 


A  WOMAN,  who  under  sentence  of  death  could 
plan  immediately  for  a  trip  to  the  circus,  might 
seem  at  first  thought  incredibly  light-minded. 

You  had,  however,  to  know  Anne  Dunbar  and  the 
ten  years  of  her  married  life  to  understand.  Her 
husband  was  fifteen  years  her  senior,  and  he  had 
few  illusions.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  Anne 
because  of  a  certain  gay  youth  in  her  which  had 
endured  throughout  the  days  of  a  dreadful  opera- 
tion and  a  slow  convalescence.  He  had  been  her 
surgeon,  and,  propped  up  in  bed,  Anne's  gray  eyes 
had  shone  upon  him,  the  red-gold  curls  of  her 
cropped  hair  had  given  her  a  look  of  almost  boyish 
beauty,  and  this  note  of  boyishness  had  been  em- 
phasized by  the  straight  slenderness  of  the  figure 
outlined  beneath  the  white  covers. 

Anne  had  married  Ridgeley  Dunbar  because  she 
loved  him.  And  love  to  Anne  had  been  all  fire  and 
flame  and  spirit.  It  did  not  take  her  long  to  learn 
that  her  husband  looked  upon  love  and  life  as 
matters  of  flesh  and  blood — and  bones.  By  degrees 

84 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

Ms  materialism  imposed  itself  upon  Anne.  She 
admired  Ridgeley  immensely.  She  worshiped,  in 
fact,  the  wonder  of  his  day's  work.  He  healed  the 
sick,  he  cured  the  halt  and  blind,  and  he  scoffed  at 
Anne's  superstitions — "  I  can  match  every  one  of 
your  Bible  miracles.  There's  nothing  to  it,  my 
dear.  Death  is  death  and  life  is  life — so  make  the 
most  of  it." 

Anne  tried  to  make  the  most  of  it.  But  she 
found  it  difficult.  In  the  first  place  her  husband 
was  a  very  busy  man.  He  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
happy  with  his  cutting  people  up,  and  his  medical 
books,  and  the  articles  which  he  wrote  about  the 
intricate  clockwork  inside  of  us  which  ticks  off  the 
hours  from  birth  to  death.  Now  and  then  he  went 
out  to  the  theatre  with  his  wife  or  to  dine  with 
friends.  But,  as  a  rule,  she  went  alone.  She  had 
a  limousine,  a  chauffeur,  a  low  swung  touring  car— 
and  an  electric.  Her  red  hair  was  still  wonderful, 
and  she  dressed  herself  quite  understandingly  in 
grays  and  whites  and  greens.  If  she  did  not  wear 
habitually  her  air  of  gay  youth,  it  was  revived  in 
her  now  and  then  when  something  pleased  or  ex- 
cited her.  And  her  eyes  would  shine  as  they  had 
shone  in  the  hospital  when  Eidgeley  Dunbar  had 
first  bent  over  her  bed. 

They  shone  on  Christopher  Carr  when  he  came 
home  from  the  war.  He  was  a  friend  of  her  hus- 

85 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

band.  Or  rather,  as  a  student  in  the  medical 
school,  he  had  listened  to  the  lectures  of  the  older 
man,  and  had  made  up  his  mind  to  know  him  per- 
sonally, and  had  thus,  by  sheer  persistence,  linked 
their  lives  together. 

Anne  had  never  met  him.  He  had  been  in  India 
when  she  had  married  Ridgeley,  and  then  there  had 
been  a  few  years  in  Egypt  where  he  had  studied 
some  strange  germ,  of  which  she  could  never  re- 
member the  name.  He  had  plenty  of  money,  hence 
he  was  not  tied  to  a  practice.  But  when  the  war 
began,  he  had  offered  his  services,  and  had  made  a 
great  record.  "He  is  one  of  the  big  men  of  the 
future,"  Eidgeley  Dunbar  had  said. 

But  when  Christopher  came  back  with  an  in- 
fected arm,  which  might  give  him  trouble,  it  was 
not  the  time  to  talk  of  futures.  He  was  invited  to 
spend  July  at  the  Dunbars'  country  home  in  Con- 
necticut, and  Kidgeley  brought  him  out  at  the 
week-end. 

The  Connecticut  estate  consisted  of  a  rambling 
stone  house,  an  old-fashioned  garden,  and  beyond 
the  garden  a  grove  of  white  birches. 

"What  a  heavenly  place,"  Christopher  said,  to- 
ward the  end  of  dinner ;  "  how  did  you  happen  to 
find  it?  " 

"  Oh,  Anne  did  it.  She  motored  for  weeks,  and 
she  bought  it  because  of  the  birches." 

86 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

Anne's  eyes  were  shining.  "I'll  show  them  to 
you  after  dinner." 

She  had  decided  at  once  that  she  liked  Chris- 
topher. He  still  wore  his  uniform,  and  had  the 
look  of  a  soldier.  But  it  wasn't  that — it  was  the 
things  he  had  been  saying  ever  since  the  soup  was 
served.  No  one  had  talked  of  the  war  as  he  talked 
of  it.  There  had  been  other  doctors  whose  minds 
had  been  on  arms  and  legs — amputated ;  on  wounds 

and  shell  shock And  there  had  been  a  few 

who  had  sentimentalized.  But  Christopher  had 
seemed  neither  to  resent  the  frightfulness  nor  to 
care  about  the  moral  or  spiritual  consequences.  He 
had  found  in  it  all  a  certain  beauty  of  which  he 
spoke  with  enthusiasm — "A  silver  dawn,  and  a 

patch  of  Blue  Devils  like  smoke  against  it ;" 

.  .  .  "A  blood-red  sunset,  and  a  lot  of  airmen 
streaming  across " 

He  painted  pictures,  so  that  Anne  saw  battles  as 
if  a  great  brush  had  splashed  them  on  an  invisible 
canvas.  There  were  just  four  at  the  table — the 
two  men,  Anne,  and  her  second  cousin,  Jeanette 
Ware,  who  lived  the  year  round  in  the  Connecti- 
cut house,  and  was  sixty  and  slightly  deaf,  but 
who  wore  modern  clothes  and  had  a  modern 
mind. 

It  was  not  yet  dark,  and  the  light  of  the  candles 
in  sconces  and  on  the  table  met  the  amethyst  light 

87 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

that  came  through,  the  wide-flung  lattice.  Anne's 
summer  gown  was  something  very  thin  in  gray,  and 
she  wore  an  Indian  necklace  of  pierced  silver  beads. 
Christopher  had  sent  it  to  her  as  a  wedding-present 
and  she  had  always  liked  it. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table,  Christopher  said, 
"  Now  for  the  birches." 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  the  telephone  rang, 
and  a  maid  came  in  to  say  that  Dr.  Dunbar  was 
wanted.  "  Don't  wait  for  me,"  he  said,  "  I'll  follow 
you." 

Jeanette  Ware  hated  the  night  air,  and  took  her 
book  to  the  lamp  on  the  screened  porch,  and  so  it 
happened  that  Anne  and  Christopher  came  alone 
to  the  grove  where  the  white  bodies  of  the  birches 
shone  like  slender  nymphs  through  the  dusk.  A 
little  wind  shook  their  leaves. 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Christopher,  looking  down  at 
Anne,  "  that  you  wanted  this — but  tell  me  precisely 
why." 

She  tried  to  tell  him,  but  found  it  difficult.  "  I 
seem  to  find  something  here  that  I  thought  I  had 
lost." 

"What  things?" 

"Well — guardian  angels — do  you  believe  in 
them?  "  She  spoke  lightly,  as  if  it  were  not  in  the 
least  serious,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  serious. 

"  I  believe  in  all  beautiful  things " 

88 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

11 1  used  to  think  when  I  was  a  little  girl  that 
they  were  around  me  when  I  was  asleep 

'Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John — 
Bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on — '  " 

her  laugh  was  a  bit  breathless — "  but  I  don't  believe 
in  them  any  more.  Ridgeley  doesn't,  you  know. 
And  it  does  seem  silly " 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't " 

"  Ridgeley  feels  that  it  is  a  bit  morbid — and  per- 
haps he  is  right.  He  says  that  we  must  eat  and 
drink  and — be  merry,"  she  flung  out  her  hands  with 
a  little  gesture  of  protest,  "but  he  really  isn't 
merry " 

"  I  see.  He  just  eats  and  drinks?  "  He  smiled 
at  her. 

"And  works.    And  his  work  is — wonderful." 

They  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  which  had  been 
hewn  out  of  solid  gray  rock.  "  I  wish  Ridgeley  had 
time  to  play,"  Anne  said;  "it  would  be  nice  for 
both  of  us " 

The  amethyst  light  had  gone,  and  the  dusk  de- 
scended. Anne's  gray  dress  was  merged  into  the 
gray  of  the  rock.  She  seemed  just  voice,  and 
phantom  outline,  and  faint  rose  fragrance. 
Christopher  recognized  the  scent.  He  had  sent  her 
a  precious  vial  in  a  sandalwood  box.  Nothing  had 

89 


seemed  too  good  for  the  wife  of  his  old  friend  Dun- 
bar. 

"  Life  for  you  and  Kidgeley,"  he  told  her, "  should 
be  something  more  than  work  or  play — it  should  be 
infinite  adventure." 

"  Yes.    But  Eidgeley  hasn't  time  for  adventure." 

"  Oh,  he  thinks  he  hasn't " 

As  Christopher  talked  after  that,  Anne  was  not 
sure  that  he  was  in  earnest.  He  complained  that 
romance  had  fallen  into  disrepute.  "  With  all  the 
modern  stories — you  know  the  formula — an  ounce 
of  sordidness,  a  flavor  of  sensationalism,  a  dash  of 

sex "  One  had  to  look  back  for  the  real 

thing — Aucassin  and  Kicolette,  and  all  the  rest. 
"  That's  why  I  haven't  married." 

"  Well,  I  have  often  wondered." 

"  If  I  loved  a  woman,  I  should  want  to  make  her 
life  all  glow  and  color — and  mine — with  her " 

Anne's  eyes  were  shining.  What  a  big  pleasant 
boy  he  was.  He  seemed  so  young.  He  had  a  way 
of  running  his  fingers  up  through  his  hair.  She 
was  aware  of  the  gesture  in  the  dark.  Yes,  she 
liked  him.  And  she  felt  suddenly  gay  and  light- 
hearted,  as  she  had  felt  in  the  days  when  she  first 
met  Eidgeley. 

They  talked  until  the  stars  shone  in  the  tips  of 
the  birch  trees.  Kidgeley  did  not  come,  and  when 
they  went  back  to  the  house,  they  found  that  he  had 

90 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

been  called  to  New  York  on  an  urgent  case.    He 
would  not  return  until  the  following  Friday. 

Anne  and  Christopher  were  thus  left  together 
for  a  week  to  get  acquainted.  With  only  old 
Jeanette  Ware  to  play  propriety. 


II 

It  did  not  take  Christopher  long  to  decide  that 
Kidgeley  was  no  longer  in  love  with  his  wife.  "  Of 
course  he  would  call  it  love.  But  he  could  live 
just  as  well  without  her.  He  has  made  a  machine 
of  himself." 

He  spoke  to  Dunbar  one  night  about  Anne.  "  Do 
you  think  she  is  perfectly  well?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  There's  a  touch  of  breathlessness  when  we  walk. 
Are  you  sure  about  her  heart?  " 

"  She  has  never  been  strong "  and  that  had 

seemed  to  be  the  end  of  it. 

But  it  was  not  the  end  of  it  for  Christopher.  He 
watched  Anne  closely,  and  once  when  they  climbed 
a  hill  together  and  she  gave  out,  he  carried  her  to 
the  top.  He  managed  to  get  his  ear  against  her 
heart,  and  what  he  heard  drained  the  blood  from 
his  face. 

As  for  Anne,  she  thought  how  strong  he  was — and 

91 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

how  fair  his  hair  was  with  the  sun  upon  it,  for  he 
had  tucked  his  cap  in  his  pocket. 

That  night  Christopher  again  spoke  to  Eidgeley. 
"Anne's  in  a  bad  way."  He  told  of  the  walk  to 
the  top  of  the  hill. 

Eidgeley  listened  this  time,  and  the  next  day  he 
took  Anne  down  into  his  office,  and  did  things  to 
her.  "  But  I  don't  see  why  you  are  doing  all  this," 
she  complained,  as  he  stuck  queer  instruments  in 
his  ears,  and  made  her  draw  long  breaths  while  he 
listened. 

"  Christopher  says  you  get  tired  when  you  walk." 

"  Well,  I  do.  But  there's  nothing  really  the  mat- 
ter, is  there?  " 

There  was  a  great  deal  the  matter,  but  there  was 
no  hint  of  it  in  his  manner.  If  she  had  not  been 
his  wife,  he  would  probably  have  told  her  the  truth 
—that  she  had  a  few  months,  perhaps  a  few  years 
ahead  of  her.  He  was  apt  to  be  frank  with  his 
patients.  But  he  was  not  frank  with  Anne.  He 
had  intended  to  tell  Christopher  at  once.  But 
Christopher  was  away  for  a  week. 

In  the  week  that  he  was  separated  from  her, 
Christopher  learned  that  he  loved  Anne ;  that  he  had 
been  in  love  with  her  from  the  moment  that  she  had 
stood  among  the  birches — like  one  of  them  in  her 
white  slenderness — and  had  talked  to  him  of  guard- 
ian angels; — "Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John!" 

92 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

He  did  not  believe  in  saints,  nor  in  the  angels  whose 
wings  seemed  to  enfold  Anne,  but  he  believed  in 
beauty — and  Anne's  seemed  lighted  from  within, 
like  an  alabaster  lamp. 

Yet  she  was  very  human — and  the  girl  in  her  and 
the  boy  in  him  had  met  in  the  weeks  that  he  had 
spent  with  her.  They  had  found  a  lot  of  things  to 
do — they  had  fished  in  shallow  brown  streams,  they 
had  ridden  through  miles  of  lovely  country.  They 
had  gone  forth  in  search  of  adventure,  and  they  had 
found  it ;  in  cherries  on  a  tree  by  the  road,  and  he 
had  climbed  the  tree  and  had  dropped  them  down  to 

her,  and  she  had  hung  them  over  her  ears He 

had  milked  a  cow  in  a  pasture  as  they  passed,  and 
they  had  drunk  it  with  their  sandwiches,  and  had 
tied  up  a  bill  in  Anne's  fine  handkerchief  and  had 
knotted  it  to  the  halter  of  the  gentle,  golden-eared 
Guernsey. 

But  they  had  found  more  than  adventure — they 
had  found  romance — shining  upon  them  every- 
where. "  If  I  were  a  gipsy  to  follow  the  road,  and 
she  could  follow  it  with  me,"  Christopher  meditated 
as  he  sat  in  the  train  on  his  way  back  to  Anne. 

But  there  was  Anne's  husband,  and  Christopher's 
friend — and  more  than  all  there  were  all  the  spec- 
ters of  modern  life — all  the  hideous  wheels  which 
must  turn  if  Anne  were  ever  to  be  his — treachery 
to  Eidgeley — the  divorce  court — and  then,  himself 

93 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

and  Anne,  living  the  aftermath,  of  it  all,  facing, 
perhaps,  disillusion 

"  Oh,  not  that/'  Christopher  told  himself,  "  she'd 
never  grow  less — never  anything  less  than  she  is — if 
she  could  once — care " 

For  he  did  not  know  whether  Anne  cared  or  not. 
He  might  guess  as  he  pleased — but  there  had  not 
been  a  word  between  them. 

Once  more  the  thought  flashed,  "If  I  were  a 
gipsy  to  follow  the  road " 

As  his  train  sped  through  the  countryside,  lie 
became  aware  of  flaming  bill-boards — a  circus  was 
showing  in  the  towns — the  fences  fairly  blazed  with 
golden  chariots,  wild  beasts,  cheap  gods  and  god- 
desses, clowns  in  frilled  collars  and  peaked  hats. 
He  remembered  a  glorious  day  that  he  had  spent  as 
a  boy! 

"  I'll  take  Anne,"  was  his  sudden  decision. 

He  laughed  to  himself,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
way  in  seeing  her  at  it.  They  would  drink  pink 
lemonade,  and  there  would  be  pop-corn  balls — the 
entrancing  smell  of  sawdust — the  beat  of  the  band. 
He  hoped  there  would  be  a  tom-tom,  and  some  of 
the  dark  people  from  the  Far  East. 

He  reached  his  destination  at  seven  o'clock. 
Dunbar  met  him  at  the  station.  Anne  sat  with 
her  husband,  and  Jeanette  was  in  the  back  seat. 
Christopher  had,  therefore,  a  side  view  of  Anne  as 

94 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

she  turned  a  little  that  she  might  talk  to  him.  The 
glint  of  her  bright  hair  under  her  gray  sports  hat, 
the  light  of  welcome  in  her  eyes ! 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  the  circus  to-morrow. 
Kidgeley,  you'll  go  too?  " 

D  unbar  shook  his  head.  "  I've  got  to  get  back 
to  town  in  the  morning.  And  I'm  not  sure  that  the 
excitement  will  be  good  for  Anne." 

"  Why  not? "  quickly.  "  Aren't  you  well, 
Anne?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Kidgeley  seems  to 
think  I'm  not.  But  the  circus  can't  hurt  me." 

Xothing  more  was  said  about  it.  Christopher 
decided  to  ask  Ridgeley  later.  But  the  opportunity 
did  not  come  until  Anne  had  gone  up-stairs,  and 
Dunbar  and  Christopher  were  smoking  a  final  cigar 
on  the  porch. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?"  Christopher 
asked. 

Dunbar  told  him,  "  She  can't  get  well." 

m 

Anne,  getting  ready  for  bed,  on  the  evening  of 
Christopher's  arrival,  felt  unaccountably  tired. 
His  presence  had  been,  perhaps,  a  bit  over-stimulat- 
ing. It  was  good  to  have  him  back.  She  scarcely 
dared  admit  to  herself  how  good.  After  dinner  she 

95 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

and  Ridgeley  and  Christopher  had  walked  down  to 
the  grove  of  birches.  There  had  been  a  new  moon, 
and  she  and  Bidgeley  had  sat  on  the  stone  bench 
with  Christopher  at  their  feet.  She  had  leaned  her 
head  against  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  he  had 
put  his  arm  about  her  in  the  dark  and  had  drawn 
her  to  him.  He  was  rarely  demonstrative,  and  his 
tenderness  had  to-night  for  some  reason  hurt  her. 
She  had  learned  to  do  without  it. 

She  had  talked  very  little,  but  Christopher  had 
talked  a  great  deal.  She  had  been  content  to  listen. 
He  really  told  such  wonderful  things — he  gave  her 
to-night  the  full  story  of  her  silver  beads,  and  how 
they  had  been  niched  from  an  ancient  temple — and 
he  had  bought  them  from  the  thief.  "  Until  I  saw 
you  wear  them,  I  always  had  a  feeling  that  they 
ought  to  go  back  to  the  temple — to  the  god  who  had 
perhaps  worn  them  for  a  thousand  years.  If  I  had 
known  which  god,  I  might  have  carried  them  back. 
But  the  thief  wouldn't  tell  me." 

"  It  would  have  done  no  good  to  carry  them 
back,"  Eidgeley  had  said,  "and  they  are  nice  for 
Anne."  His  big  hand  had  catted  his  wife's 
shoulder. 

"  Oh,"  Christopher  had  been  eager,  "  I  want  you 
to  hear  those  temple  bells  some  day,  Anne.  Why 
won't  you  take  her,  Dunbar?  Kext  winter — drop 

your  work,  and  we'll  all  go " 

96 


"  I've  a  fat  chance  of  going." 

"  Haven't  you  made  money  enough?  " 

"  It  isn't  money.  You  know  that.  But  my  pa- 
tients would  set  up  a  howl " 

"  Let  'em  howl.  You've  got  a  life  of  your  own 
to  live,  and  so  has  Anne." 

Dunbar  had  hesitated  for  a  moment — then, 
"Anne's  better  off  here." 

Anne,  thinking  of  these  things  as  she  got  out  of 
her  dinner  dress  and  into  a  sheer  negligee  of  lace 
and  faint  blue,  wondered  why  Eidgeley  should 
think  she  was  better  off.  She  wanted  to  see  the 
things  of  which  Christopher  had  told  her — to  hear 
the  temple  bells  in  the  dusk — the  beat  of  the  tom- 
tom on  white  nights. 

She  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  at  the  moon. 
She  decided  that  she  could  not  sleep.  She  would 
go  down  and  get  a  book  that  she  had  left  on  the 
table.  The  men  were  out-of-doors,  on  the  porch; 
she  heard  the  murmur  of  their  voices. 

The  voices  were  distinct  as  she  stood  in  the  li- 
brary, and  Christopher's  words  came  to  her, 
"  What's  the  matter  with  Anne?  " 

Then  her  husband's  technical  explanation,  the 
scientific  name  which  meant  nothing  to  her,  then 
the  crashing  climax,  "  She  can't  get  well." 

She  gave  a  quick  cry,  and  when  the  men  got  into 
the  room,  she  was  crumpled  up  on  the  floor. 

97 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Her  husband  reached  her  first.  "  My  dear,"  he 
said,  "  you  heard?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  mean  that  I  am — going  to  die, 
Kidgeley?  " 

There  was,  of  course,  no  way  out  of  it.  "  It 
means,  my  dear,  that  I've  got  to  take  awfully  good 
care  of  you.  Your  heart  is  bad." 

Christopher  interposed.  "  People  live  for  years 
with  a  heart  like  that." 

But  her  eyes  sought  her  husband's.  "  How  long 
do  they  live?  " 

"  Many  months — perhaps  years — without  excite- 
ment   " 

This  then  had  been  the  reason  for  his  tenderness. 
He  had  known  that  she  was  going  to  die,  and  was 
sorry.  But  for  ten  years  she  had  wanted  what  he 
might  have  given  her — what  he  couldn't  give  her 
now — life  as  she  had  dreamed  of  it. 

She  drew  a  quivering  breath — "It  isn't  quite 
fair— is  it?  " 

It  didn't  seem  fair.  The  two  doctors  had  faced 
much  unfairness  of  the  kind  of  which  she  com- 
plained. But  it  was  the  first  time  that,  for  either 
of  them,  it  had  come  so  close. 

They  had  little  comfort  to  give  her,  although  they 
attempted  certain  platitudes,  and  presently  Kidge- 
ley carried  her  to  her  room. 


98 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

IV 

She  insisted  the  next  morning  on  going  to  the 
circus  with  Christopher.  She  had  not  slept  well, 
and  there  were  shadows  under  her  eyes.  The  physi- 
cian in  Christopher  warred  with  the  man.  "  You 
ought  to  rest,"  he  said  at  breakfast.  Dunbar  had 
gone  to  New  York  in  accordance  with  his  usual 
schedule.  There  were  other  lives  to  think  of ;  and 
Anne,  when  he  had  looked  in  upon  her  that  morn- 
ing, had  seemed  almost  shockingly  callous. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  stay  in  bed,  Kidgeley.  I 
am  going  to  the  circus.  I  shall  follow  your  pre- 
scription— to  eat  and  drink  and  be  merry " 

"I  don't  think  I  have  put  it  quite  that  way, 
Anne." 

"  You  have.  Quite.  '  Death  is  death  and  life  is 
life — so  make  the  most  of  it.'  " 

Perhaps  she  was  cruel.  But  he  knew,  too,  that 
she  was  afraid.  "My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "if 
you  can  get  any  comfort  out  of  your  own  ideas,  it 
might  be  better." 

"  But  you  believe  they  are  just  my  own  ideas — 
you  don't  believe  they  are  true?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  think  they  were  true." 

"You  ought  to  rest,"  said  Christopher  at  the 
breakfast  table. 

"  I  ought  not.    There  are  to  be  no  more  oughts — 

ever " 

99 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

He  nodded  as  if  lie  understood,  leaning  elbows 
on  the  table. 

"  I  am  going  to  pack  the  days  full " — she  went 
on.  "  Why  not?  I  shall  have  only  a  few 

months — and  then — annihilation "  She  flung 

her  question  across  the  table.  "  You  believe  that, 
don't  you?  " 

He  evaded.    "  We  sleep — '  perchance  to  dream/ r 

"  I  don't  want  to  dream.  They  might  be  horrid 
dreams " 

And  then  Jeanette  came  down,  and  poured  their 
coffee,  and  asked  about  the  news  in  the  morning 
paper. 

Dressed  for  her  trip  to  the  circus,  Anne  looked 
like  a  girl  in  her  teens — white  skirt  and  short  green 
coat — stout  sports  shoes  and  white  hat.  She  wore 
her  silver  beads,  and  Christopher  said,  "  I'm  not 
sure  that  I  would  if  I  were  you." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  In  such  a  crowd." 

But  she  kept  them  on. 

They  motored  to  the  circus  grounds,  and  came  in 
out  of  the  white  glare  to  the  cool  dimness  of  the 
tent  as  if  they  had  dived  from  the  sun-bright  sur- 
face of  the  sea.  But  there  the  resemblance  ceased. 
Here  was  no  silence,  but  blatant  noise — roar  and 
chatter  and  shriek,  the  beat  of  the  tom-tom,  the 
thin  piping  of  a  flute — the  crash  of  a  band.  But 

100 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

it  was  the  thin  piping  which  Christopher  followed, 
guiding  Anne  with  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

Following  the  plaintive  note,  they  came  at  last 
to  the  snake-charmer — an  old  man  in  a  white  tur- 
ban. The  snakes  were  in  a  covered  basket.  He 
sat  with  his  feet  under  him  and  piped. 

Christopher  spoke  to  him  in  a  strange  tongue. 
The  piping  broke  off  abruptly  and  the  man  an- 
swered with  eagerness.  There  was  a  quick  inter- 
change of  phrases. 

"  I  know  his  village,"  Christopher  said ;  "  lie  is 
going  to  show  you  his  snakes." 

A  crowd  gathered,  but  the  snake-charmer  saw 
only  the  big  man  who  had  spoken  to  his  homesick 
heart,  and  the  girl  with  the  silver  beads.  He  knew 
another  girl  who  had  had  a  string  of  beads  like 
that — and  they  had  brought  her  luck — a  dark- 
skinned  girl,  his  daughter.  Her  husband  had  be- 
stowed the  beads  on  her  marriage  night,  and  her 
first  child  had  been  a  son. 

He  put  the  thin  reed  to  his  lips,  and  blew  upon 
it.  The  snakes  lifted  their  heads.  He  drew  them 
up  and  out  of  the  basket,  and  put  them  through 
their  fantastic  paces.  Then  he  laid  aside  his  pipe, 
shut  them  in  their  basket,  and  spoke  to  Christopher. 

"  He  says  that  no  evil  can  touch  you  while  you 
wear  the  beads,"  Christopher  told  Anne. 

The  old  man,  with  his  eyes  on  her  intent  face, 

101 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

spoke  again.  "  What  you  think  is  evil — cannot  be 
evil,"  Christopher  interpreted.  "  The  gods  know 
best." 

They  moved  toward  the  inner  tent. 

"Are  you  tired?  "  Christopher  asked.  "  We  don't 
have  to  stay." 

"  I  want  to  stay,"  and  so  they  went  in,  and  pres- 
ently with  a  blare  of  trumpets  the  great  parade 
began.  They  looked  down  on  men  and  women  in 
Roman  chariots,  men  on  horseback,  women  on 
horseback,  on  elephants,  on  camels — painted  ladies 
in  howdahs,  painted  ladies  in  sedan  chairs — Cleo- 
patra, Pompadour — history  reduced  to  pantomime, 
color  imposed  upon  color,  glitter  upon  glitter,  the 
beat  of  the  tom-tom,  the  crash  of  the  band,  the  thin 
piping,  as  the  white-turbaned  snake-charmer  showed 
in  the  press  of  the  crowd. 

Christopher's  eyes  went  to  Anne.  She  was  lean- 
ing forward,  one  hand  clasping  the  silver  beads. 
He  would  have  given  much  to  know  what  was  in 
her  mind.  How  little  she  was  and  how  young. 
And  how  he  wanted  to  get  her  away  from  the  thing 
which  hung  suspended  over  her  like  a  keen-edged 
sword. 

But  to  get  her  away — how?  He  could  never  get 
her  away  from  her  thoughts.  Unless  . 

Suddenly  he  heard  her  laughing.  Two  clowns 
were  performing  with  a  lot  of  little  dogs.  One  of 

102 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

the  dogs  was  a  poodle  who  played  the  fool.  "  What 
a  darling,"  Anne  was  saying. 

There  was  more  than  they  could  look  at — each 
ring  seemed  a  separate  circus — one  had  to  have 
more  than  a  single  pair  of  eyes.  Christopher  was 
blind  to  it  all — except  when  Anne  insisted,  "Look — 
look!" 

Six  acrobats  were  in  the  ring — four  men  and  two 
women.  Their  tights  were  of  a  clear  shimmering 
blue,  with  silver  trunks.  One  could  not  tell  the 
women  from  the  men,  except  by  their  curled  heads, 
and  their  smaller  stature.  They  were  strong,  whole- 
some, healthy.  Christopher  knew  the  quality  of 
that  health — hearts  that  pumped  like  machines — 
obedient  muscles  under  satin  skins.  One  of  the 
women  whirled  in  a  series  of  handsprings,  like  a 
blue  balloon — her  body  as  fluid  as  quicksilver.  If 
he  could  only  borrow  one-tenth  of  that  endurance 
for  Anne — he  might  keep  her  for  years. 

Then  came  Pantaloon,  and  Harlequin  and 
Columbine.  The  old  man  was  funny,  but  the  youth 
and  the  girl  were  exquisite — he,  diamond-spangled 
and  lean  as  a  lizard,  she  in  tulle  skirts  and  wreath 
of  flowers.  They  did  all  the  old  tricks  of  masks 
and  slapping  sticks,  of  pursuit  and  retreat,  but 
they  did  them  so  beautifully  that  Anne  and  Chris- 
topher sat  spellbound — what  they  were  seeing  was 
not  two  clever  actors  on  a  sawdust  stage,  but  love 

103 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

in  its  springtime — girl  and  boy — dreams,  rapture, 
radiance. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  Columbine  was  dead,  and 
Harlequin  wept  over  her — frost  had  killed  the 
flower — love  and  life  were  at  an  end. 

Christopher  was  drawing  deep  breaths.  Anne 
was  tense.  But  now — Columbine  was  on  her  feet, 
and  Harlequin  was  blowing  kisses  to  the  audience ! 

"  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  Christopher  said,  almost 
roughly,  and  led  Anne  down  the  steps  and  into  the 
almost  deserted  outer  tent.  They  looked  for  the 
snake-charmer,  but  he  was  gone.  "Eating  rice 
somewhere  or  saying  his  prayers,"  Christopher  sur- 
mised. 

"How  could  he  know  about  the  gods?"  Anne 
asked,  as  they  drove  home. 

"  They  know  a  great  deal — these  old  men  of  the 
East,"  Christopher  told  her,  and  talked  for  the  rest 
of  the  way  about  the  strange  people  among  whom 
he  had  spent  so  many  years. 


V 

Eidgeley  did  not  come  home  to  dinner.  He  tele- 
phoned that  he  would  be  late.  It  was  close  and 
warm.  Christopher,  sitting  with  Anne  and  Jean- 
ette  on  the  porch,  decided  that  a  storm  was  brew- 
ing. 

104 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

Anne  was  restless.  She  went  down  into  the 
garden,  and  Christopher  followed  her.  She  wore 
white,  and  he  was  aware  of  the  rose  scent.  He 
picked  a  rose  for  her  as  he  passed  through  the  gar- 
den. "Bend  your  head,  and  I'll  put  it  in  your 
hair." 

"  I  can't  wear  pink." 

"  It  is  white  in  the  dusk "  He  put  his  hands 

on  her  shoulders,  stopped  her,  and  stuck  the  rose 
behind  her  ear.  Then  he  let  her  go. 

They  came  to  the  grove  of  birches,  and  sat  down 
on  the  stone  seat.  It  had  grown  dark,  and  the 
lightning  flashing  up  from  the  horizon  gave  to  the 
birches  a  spectral  whiteness — Anne  was  a  silver 
statue. 

"  It  was  queer,"  she  said,  "  about  the  old  man  at 
the  circus." 

"About  the  beads?" 

"Yes.  I  wonder  what  he  meant,  Christopher? 
'  What  you  think  is  evil — cannot  be  evil '?  Do  you 
think  he  meant — Death?  " 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  then  he  said,  ab- 
ruptly, "Anne,  how  did  it  happen  that  you  and 
Eidgeley  drifted  apart?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  hard  to  tell." 

"  But  tell  me." 

"Well,  when  we  were  first  married,  I  expected 
so  much  .  .  .  things  that  girls  dream  about — 

105 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

that  he  would  always  have  me  in  his  thoughts,  and 
that  our  lives  would  be  knit  together.  I  think  we 
both  tried  hard  to  have  it  that  way.  I  used  to  ride 
with  him  on  his  rounds,  and  he  would  tell  me  about 
his  patients.  And  at  night  I'd  wait  up  for  him, 
and  have  something  to  eat,  and  it  was — heavenly. 
Ridgeley  was  so  ...  fine.  But  his  practice 
got  so  big,  and  sometimes  he  wouldn't  say  a  word 
when  I  rode  with  him.  .  .  .  And  he  would  be 
so  late  coming  in  at  night,  and  he'd  telephone  that 
I'd  better  go  to  bed.  .  .  .  And,  well,  that  was 
the  beginning.  I  don't  think  it  is  really  his  fault 
or  mine  .  .  .  it's  just  .  .  .  life." 

"It  isn't  life,  and  you  know  it,"  passionately. 
"Anne,  if  you  had  married  me  ...  do  you 
think  .  .  .  ? "  He  reached  out  in  the  dark 
and  took  her  hand.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  we  might  as 
well  talk  it  out." 

She  withdrew  her  hand.     "  Talk  what  out?  " 

"  You  know.  I've  learned  to  care  for  you  an 
awful  lot.  I  had  planned  to  go  away.  But  I 
can't  go  now  .  .  .  not  and  leave  you  to  face 
things  alone." 

He  heard  her  quick  breath.  "But  I've  got  to 
face  them." 

"  But  not  alone.  Anne,  do  you  remember  what 
you  said  .  .  .  this  morning?  That  you  were 
going  to  pack  the  days  full  ?  And  you  can't  do  that 

106 


without  some  one  to  help  you.  And  Kidgeley  won't 
help.  Anne,  let  me  do  it.  Let  me  take  you  away 
from  here  .  .  .  away  from  Kidgeley.  We  will 
go  where  we  can  hear  the  temple  bells.  We'll  ride 
through  the  desert  .  .  .  we'll  set  our  sails  for 
strange  harbors.  We'll  love  until  we  forget  every- 
thing, but  the  day,  the  hour, — the  moment!  And 
when  the  time  comes  for  endless  dreams  .  .  ." 

"  Christopher    .     .     ." 

"Anne,  listen." 

"  You  mustn't  say  things  like  that  to  me  .  .  . 
you  must  not  ...  ! " 

"  I  must.  I  want  you  to  have  happiness.  We'll 
crowd  more  in  to  a  few  short  months  than  some 
people  have  in  a  lifetime.  And  you  have  a  right 
to  it." 

"Would  it  be  happiness?  " 

"  Why  not?  In  a  way  we  are  all  pushing  death 
ahead  of  us.  Who  knows  that  he  will  be  alive  to- 
morrow? There's  this  arm  of  mine  .  .  .  there's 
every  chance  that  I'll  have  trouble  with  it.  And 
an  automobile  accident  may  wreck  a  honeymoon. 
You've  as  much  time  as  thousands  who  are  count- 
ing on  more." 

The  lightning  flashed  and  showed  the  birches 
writhing. 

"  But  afterward,  Christopher,  afterward  ...  ?  " 

"Well,  if  it  is  Heaven,  we'll  have  each  other. 

107 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

And  if  it  is  Hell  .  .  .  there  were  Paolo  and 
Francesca  .  .  .  and  if  it  is  sleep,  I'll  dream 
eternally  of  you!  Anne  .  .  .  Anne,  do  you 
love  me  enough  to  do  it?  " 

"  Christopher,  please ! " 

But  the  storm  was  upon  them — rain  and  wind, 
and  the  thunder  a  cannonade.  Christopher,  brought 
at  last  to  the  knowledge  of  its  menace,  picked  Anne 
up  in  his  arms,  and  ran  for  shelter.  When  they 
reached  the  house,  they  found  Kidgeley  there.  He 
was  stern.  "It  was  a  bad  business  to  keep  her 
out.  She's  afraid  of  storms." 

"  Were  you  afraid?  "  Christopher  asked  her,  as 
Bidgcley  went  to  look  after  the  awnings. 

"  I  forgot  the  storm,"  she  said,  and  did  not  meet 
his  eyes. 

VI 

Lying  awake  in  her  wide  bed,  Anne  thought  it 
over.  She  was  still  shaken  by  Christopher's 
vehemence.  She  had  believed  him  her  friend,  and 
had  found  him  her  lover — and  oh,  he  had  brought 
back  youth  to  her.  If  he  left  her  now,  how  could 
she  stand  it — the  days  with  no  one  but  Jeanette 
Ware,  and  the  soul-shaking  knowledge  of  what  was 
ahead? 

And  Ridgeley  would  not  care — much.  In  a  week 
he'd  be  swallowed  up  by  his  work.  .  .  . 

108 


She  tried  to  read,  but  found  it  difficult.  Across 
each  page  flamed  Christopher's  sentences  .  .  . 
"  We'll  ride  through  the  desert.  .  .  .  We'll  set 
our  sails  for  strange  harbors.  .  .  ." 

Was  that  what  the  old  man  had  meant  at  the 
circus  .  .  .  "What  you  think  is  evil — cannot 
be  evil "?  Would  Christopher  give  her  all  that  she 
had  hoped  of  Kidgeley?  If  she  lived  to  be  eighty, 
she  and  Eidgeley  would — jog.  Was  Christopher 
right — "  You'll  have  more  happiness  in  a  few 
months  than  some  people  in  a  lifetime?  " 

She  heard  her  husband  moving  about  in  the  next 
room,  the  water  booming  in  his  bath.  A  thin  line 
of  light  showed  under  his  door. 

She  shut  her  book  and  turned  out  her  Ininp. 
The  storm  had  died  down  and  the  moon  was  up. 
Through  the  open  window  she  could  see  beyond  the 
garden  to  the  grove  of  birches. 

Hitherto,  the  thought  of  the  little  grove  had  been 
as  of  a  sanctuary.  She  was  aware,  suddenly,  that 
it  had  become  a  place  of  contending  forces.  Were 
the  guardian  angels  driven  out  .  .  .  ? 

But  there  weren't  any  guardian  angels!  Ridge- 
ley  had  said  that  they  were  silly.  And  Christopher 
didn't  believe  in  them.  She  wished  that  her  mother 
might  have  lived  to  talk  it  over.  Her  mother  had 
had  no  doubts. 

The  door  of  her  husband's  room  opened,  and  he 
109 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

was  silhouetted  against  the  light.  Coining  up  to 
the  side  of  her  bed,  he  found  her  wide-eyed. 

"  Can't  you  sleep,  my  dear?  " 

"  2so." 

"  I  don't  want  to  give  you  anything." 

"  I  don't  want  anything." 

He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  had  on 
his  blue  bathrobe,  and  the  open  neck  showed  his 
strong  white  throat.  "  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  I've 
been  thinking  of  what  you  said  this  morning — 
about  my  lack  of  belief  and  the  effect  it  has  had  on 
yours.  And — I'm  sorry." 

"Being  sorry  doesn't  help  any,  does  it,  Ridge- 
ley?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  think  that  you  had  your  old 
faiths  to — comfort  you." 

She  had  no  answer  for  that,  and  presently  he 
said,  "Are  you  warm  enough?  "  and  brought  an  ex- 
tra blanket,  because  the  air  was  cool  after  the 
storm,  and  then  he  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead, 
"  Shut  your  eyes  and  sleep  if  you  can." 

But  of  course  she  couldn't  sleep.  She  lay  there 
for  hours,  weighing  what  he  had  said  to  her  against 
what  Christopher  had  said.  Each  man  was  offer- 
ing her  something — Christopher,  life  at  the  expense 
of  all  her  scruples.  Eidgeley,  the  resurrection  of 
burnt-out  beliefs. 

She  shivered  a  bit  under  the  blanket.  It  would 
110 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

be  heavenly  to  hear  the  temple  bells — with  youth 
beside  her.  To  drink  the  wine  of  life  from  a 
brimming  cup.  But  all  the  time  she  would  be 
afraid.  Nothing  could  take  away  that  fear. — 
Nothing,  nothing,  nothing. 

She  was  glad  that  her  husband  was  awake.  The 
thin  line  of  light  still  showed  beneath  his  door.  It 
would  be  dreadful  to  be  alone — in  the  dark.  At 
last  she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  got  out  of 
bed,  wrapped  herself  in  a  robe  that  lay  at  the  foot 
of  it,  and  opened  the  door. 

"  May  I  leave  it  open?  " 

As  her  husband  turned  in  his  chair,  she  saw  his 
hand  go  quickly,  as  if  to  cover  the  paper  on  which 
he  was  writing.  "  Of  course,  my  dear.  Are  you 
afraid?  " 

"I  am  always  afraid,  Eidgeley.    Always " 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  and  began  to 
cry.  He  came  swiftly  toward  her  and  took  her  in 
his  arms.  "  Hush,"  he  said,  "  nothing  can  hurt 
you,  Anne." 

vn 

When  she  waked  in  the  morning,  it  was  with  the 
remembrance  of  his  tenderness.  Well,  of  course 
he  was  sorry  for  her.  Anybody  would  be.  But 
Christopher  was  sorry,  too.  And  Christopher  had 

111 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

something  to  offer  her — more  than  Kidgeley — yes, 
it  was  more 

She  was  half  afraid  to  go  down-stairs.  Christo- 
pher would  be  at  breakfast  on  the  porch.  Jean- 
ette  would  be  there,  pouring  coffee,  and  perhaps 
Kidgeley  if  he  had  no  calls.  And  Christopher 
would  talk  in  his  gay  young  voice — and  Kidgeley 
would  read  the  newspaper,  and  she  and  Christopher 
would  make  their  plans  for  the  day 

She  rose  and  began  to  dress,  but  found  herself 
suddenly  panic-stricken  at  the  thought  of  the  plans 
that  Christopher  might  make.  If  they  motored  off 
together,  he  would  talk  to  her  as  he  had  talked  in 
the  grove  of  birches — of  the  temple  bells,  and  of  the 
desert,  and  the  strange  harbors — and  how  could  she 
be  sure  that  she  would  be  strong  enough  to  resist — 
and  what  if  she  listened,  and  let  him  have  his  way? 

She  decided  to  eat  her  breakfast  in  bed,  and  rang 
for  it.  A  note  came  up  from  Christopher.  "  Don't 
stay  up-stairs.  Ridgeley  left  hours  ago,  and  I 
shan't  enjoy  my  toast  and  bacon  if  you  aren't  op- 
posite me.  I  have  picked  a  white  rose  to  put  by 
your  plate.  And  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say 
to  you " 

His  words  had  a  tonic  effect.     Oh,  why  not ? 

What  earthly  difference  would  it  make?  And 
hadn't  Browning  said  something  like  that — "  Who 
knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night?" 

112 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

She  was  not  sure  that  was  quite  the  way  that 
Browning  had  put  it,  and  she  thought  she  would 
like  to  be  sure — she  could  almost  see  herself  say- 
ing it  to  Christopher. 

So  she  went  into  her  husband's  room  to  get  the 
book. 

Eidgeley's  books  were  on  the  shelf  above  his 
desk.  They  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  medical 
library — that  was  down-stairs  in  his  office,  and  now 
and  then  he  would  bring  up  a  great  volume.  But 
he  had  a  literary  side,  and  he  had  revealed  some  of 
it  to  Anne  in  the  days  before  he  had  been  too  busy. 
His  Browning  was  marked,  and  it  was  not  hard  to 
find  "The  Last  Ride."  She  opened  at  the  right 
page,  and  stood  reading — an  incongruous  figure 
amid  Ridgeley's  masculine  belongings  in  her  sheer 
negligee  of  faint  blue. 

She  closed  the  book,  put  it  back  on  the  shelf,  and 
was  moving  away,  when  her  eyes  were  caught  by 
two  words — "  For  Anne,"  at  the  top  of  a  sheet  of 
paper  which  lay  on  Ridgeley's  desk.  The  entire 
page  was  filled  with  Ridgeley's  neat  professional 
script,  and  in  a  flash  the  gesture  which  he  had  made 
the  night  before  returned  to  her,  as  if  he  were  try- 
ing to  hide  something  from  her  gaze. 

She  bent  and  read    .    .    . 

Oh,  was  this  the  way  he  had  spent  the  hours  of 
the  night?  Searching  for  words  which  might  com- 

113 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

fort  her,  might  clear  away  her  doubts,  might  bring 
hope  to  her  heart? 

And  he  had  found  things  like  this:  "My  little 
sister,  Death/'  said  good  St.  Francis;  .  .  . 
"  The  darkness  is  no  darkness  with  thee,  but  the 
night  is  as  clear  as  day;  the  darkness  and  light  to 
thee  are  both  alike  .  .  ."  "  Yea,  though  I 
walk  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  .  .  " 
These  and  many  others,  truths  which  had  once  been 
a  part  of  her. 

She  read,  avidly.  Oh,  she  had  been  thirsty — 

for  this!  Hungry  for  this!  And  Ridgeley ! 

The  tears  dripped  so  that  she  could  hardly  see  the 
lines.  She  laid  her  cheek  against  the  paper,  and 
her  tears  blistered  it. 

She  carried  it  into  her  room.  Christopher's  note 
still  lay  on  her  pillow.  She  read  it  again,  but  she 
had  no  ears  now  for  its  call.  She  rang  for  her 
maid.  "  I  shall  stay  in  bed  and  write  some  letters." 

She  wrote  to  Christopher,  after  many  attempts. 
"  We  have  been  such  good,  good  friends.  And  we 
mustn't  spoil  it.  Perhaps  if  you  could  go  away  for 
a  time,  it  would  be  best  for  both  of  us.  I  am  going 
to  believe  that  some  day  you  will  find  great  happi- 
ness. And  you  would  never  have  found  happiness 
with  me,  you  would  have  found  only — fear.  And 
I  know  now  what  the  old  man  meant  about  the 
beads — 'What  you  think  is  evil — cannot  be  evil.' 

114 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

Christopher,  death  isn't  evil,  if  it  isn't  the  end  of 
things.  And  I  am  going  to  believe  that  it  is  not 
the  end  .  .  ." 

Christopher  went  into  town  before  lunch,  and 
later  Anne  sat  alone  on  the  stone  bench  in  her  grove 
of  birches.  They  were  serene  and  still  in  the  gold 
of  the  afternoon.  Yet  last  night  they  had  writhed 
in  the  storm.  She,  too,  had  been  swept  by  a 
storm.  .  .  .  She  missed  her  playmate — but  she 
had  a  sense  of  relief  in  the  absence  of  her  tempestu- 
ous lover. 

Ridgeley  came  home  that  night  with  news  of 
Christopher's  sudden  departure.  "  He  found  tele- 
grams. He  told  me  to  say  ( good-bye '  to  you." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Anne  said,  and  meant  it.  Sorry 
that  it  had  to  be — but  being  sorry  could  not 
change  it. 

After  dinner  Ridgeley  had  a  call  to  make,  and 
Anne  went  up  to  bed.  But  she  was  awake  when 
her  husband  came  in,  and  the  thin  line  of  light 
showed.  She  waited  until  she  heard  the  boom  of 
water  in  his  bath,  and  then  she  slipped  out  of  bed 
and  opened  the  door  between.  She  was  propped 
up  in  her  pillows  when  he  reappeared  in  his  blue 
bathrobe. 

"  Hello,"  he  called,  "  did  you  want  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Kidgeley." 

He  came  in.    "Anything  the  matter?  " 

115 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

"  !Nb.    I'm  not  sick.    But  I  want  to  talk." 

"About  what?" 

"This "  She  showed  him  the  paper  with 

its  caption,  "  For  Anne." 

"Bidgeley,  did  you  write  it  because  I  was — 
afraid?  "  her  hand  went  out  to  him. 

His  own  went  over  it.  "  I  think  I  wrote  it  be- 
cause I  was  afraid." 

"  You?  " 

His  grip  almost  hurt  her.  "  My  dear,  my  dear, 
I  haven't  believed  in  things.  How  could  I  ... 
with  all  the  facts  that  men  like  me  have  to  deal 
with?  But  when  I  faced  .  .  .  losing  you  .  .  .! 
love's  got  to  be  eternal  .  .  ." 

"  Kidgeley." 

"  I  won't  .  .  .  lose  you.  Oh,  I  know.  We've 
grown  apart.  I  don't  know  how  a  man  is  going  to 
help  it  ...  in  this  darned  whirlpool.  .  .  . 
But  you've  always  been  right  .  .  .  here.  .  .  . 
I've  felt  I  might  .  .  .  have  you,  if  I  ever  had 
time*" .  .  ."  his  voice  broke. 

'•And  I  thought  you  didn't  care." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  that,  and  somehow  I  couldn't 
get  .  .  .  back  ...  to  where  we  began.  I 
was  always  thinking  I  would.  .  .  .  And  then 
this  came.  .  .  . 

"  I  always  hated  to  kill  the  things  that  you  be- 
lieved, Anne.  I  thought  I  had  to  be  honest  .  .  . 

116 


WHITE  BIRCHES 

that  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  face  the  truth. 
.  .  .  But  which  one  of  us  knows  the  Truth? 
Kot  a  man  among  us.  And  I  came  across  this 
.  .  .  e  Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not 
quickened  except  it  die.  .  .  .'  We  are  all 
fools — the  wisest  of  us.  .  .  ." 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  he  gathered 
her  close.  She  felt  that  it  had  been  a  thousand 
years  since  she  had  prayed,  yet  she  heard  herself 
speaking  .  .  .  And  when  he  laid  her  back  upon 
her  pillows,  she  was  aware  that  together  they  had 
approached  some  height  from  which  they  would 
never  again  descend. 

"  I'll  leave  the  door  open,"  he  said,  as  he  left 
her.  "I  shall  be  reading,  and  you  can  see  the 
light." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  light  from  Ms  room  flooded 
the  world.  The  four  posts  of  her  bed  once  more 
were  tipped  with  shining  saints!  She  turned  on 
her  pillow — beyond  the  garden,  the  grove  of  white 
birches  was  steeped  in  celestial  radiance. 

"  My  little  sister,  Death,"  said  good  St.  Frar  «is. 

With  her  hand  under  her  cheek,  she  slept  at  last, 
as  peacefully  as  a  child. 


117 


I 

I  TTAT>  not  known  Tom  Kandolph  a  week  before 
I  was  aware  that  life  was  not  real  to  him.  All  his 
world  was  a  stage,  with  himself  as  chief  player. 
He  dramatized  everything — actions,  emotions,  in- 
come. Thus  he  made  poverty  picturesque,  love  a 
thing  of  the  stars,  the  day's  work  a  tragedy,  or,  if 
the  professors  proved  kind,  a  comedy.  He  ate  and 
drank,  as  it  were,  to  music,  combed  his  hair  and 
blacked  his  boots  in  the  glare  of  footlights;  made 
exits  and  entrances  of  a  kind  unknown  to  men  like 
myself  who  lacked  his  sense  of  the  histrionic. 

He  was  Southern  and  chivalric.  His  traditions 
had  to  do  with  the  doffed  hat  and  the  bent  knee. 
He  put  woman  on  a  pedestal  and  kept  her  there. 
ISTo  man,  he  contended,  was  worthy  of  her — what 
she  gave  was  by  the  grace  of  her  own  sweet  charity ! 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  all  this  he  missed  the  mod- 
ern note.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  fed  upon  Scott, 
and  his  later  reading  had  not  robbed  him  of  his 
sense  of  life  as  a  flamboyant  spectacle. 

He  came  to  us  in  college  with  a  beggarly  allow- 
ance from  an  impoverished  estate  owned  by  his 
grandfather,  a  colonel  of  the  Confederacy,  who 
after  the  war  had  withdrawn  with  his  widowed 

118 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

daughter  to  his  worthless  acres.  In  due  time  the 
daughter  had  died,  and  her  child  had  grown  up  in 
a  world  of  shadows.  On  nothing  a  year  the  colonel 
had  managed,  in  some  miraculous  fashion,  to  pre- 
serve certain  hospitable  old  customs.  Distin- 
guished guests  still  sat  at  his  table  and  ate  ducks 
cooked  to  the  proper  state  of  rareness,  and  terrapin 
in  a  chafing-dish,  with  a  dash  of  old  sherry.  If  be- 
tween these  feasts  there  was  famine  the  world  never 
knew. 

It  was  perhaps  from  the  colonel  that  Randolph 
had  learned  to  make  poverty  picturesque.  His 
clothes  were  old  and  his  shoes  were  shabby.  But 
his  strength  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  did  not  think  of 
himself  as  poor.  He  had  so  much,  you  see,  that  the 
rest  of  us  lacked.  He  was  a  Randolph.  He  had 
name,  position,  ancestry.  He  was,  in  short,  a  gen- 
tleman ! 

I  do  not  think  he  looked  upon  any  of  us  as  gen- 
tlemen, not  in  the  Old  Dominion  sense.  He  had 
come  to  our  small  Middle- Western  college  because 
it  was  cheap  and  his  finances  would  not  compass 
education  anywhere  else. 

In  an  older  man  his  prejudices  would  have  been 
insufferable,  but  his  youth  and  charm  made  us 
lenient.  We  contented  ourselves  with  calling  him 
"  Your  Highness,"  and  were  always  nattered  when 
he  asked  us  to  his  rooms. 

119 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

His  strong  suit  was  hospitality.  It  was  in  Ms 
blood,  of  course.  When  his  allowance  came  he 
spent  it  in  giving  the  rest  of  us  a  good  time.  His 
room  was  as  shabby  as  himself — a  table,  an  ink- 
spotted  desk,  a  couch  with  a  disreputable  cover,  a 
picture  of  Washington,  a  half-dozen  books,  and  a 
chafing-dish. 

The  chafing-dish  was  the  hump  and  the  hoof  of 
his  festivities.  He  made  rarebits  and  deviled 
things  with  an  air  that  had  been  handed  down  from 
generations  of  epicures.  I  can  see  him  now  with 
his  black  hair  in  a  waving  lock  on  his  forehead,  in 
worn  slippers  and  faded  corduroy  coat,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  table  smoking  a  long  pipe,  visualiz- 
ing himself  as  the  lord  of  a  castle — the  rest  of  us 
as  vassals  of  a  rather  agreeable  and  intelligent 
sort! 

It  was  perfectly  natural  that  he  should  stage  his 
first  love-affair,  and  when  he  was  jilted  that  lie 
should  dramatize  his  despair.  For  days  after 
Madge  Ballou  had  declared  her  preference  for 
Dicky  Carson,  Randolph  walked  with  melancholy. 
He  came  to  my  rooms  and  sat,  a  very  young  and 
handsome  Hamlet,  on  my  fire-bench,  with  his  chin 
in  his  hand. 

"  Why  should  she  like  Dicky  best?  " 

"  She  has  no  imagination." 

"But  Dicky's  a— beast " 

120 


TEE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

"  With  a  fat  bank-account." 

"  Money  wouldn't  count  with  Madge." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure " 

"  Women  are  not  like  that,  MacDonald." 

I  saw,  as  he  went  on  with  his  arguments,  that 
she  had  become  to  him  an  Ophelia,  weakly  led. 
Women  in  his  lexicon  of  romance  might  be  weak 
but  never  mercenary.  I  think  he  finally  overthrew 
her  in  his  mind  with  "  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery!  "  I 
know  that  he  burned  her  picture ;  he  showed  me  the 
ashes  in  a  silver  stamp-box. 

He  had,  of  course,  his  heroes — there  were  mo- 
ments when  unconsciously  he  aped  them.  It  was 
after  a  debate  that  the  boys  began  to  call  him 
"Bonaparte."  He  had  defended  the  Little  Cor- 
poral, and  in  defending  him  had  personified  him. 
With  that  dark  lock  over  his  forehead,  his  arms 
folded,  he  had  flung  defiance  to  the  deputies,  and 
for  that  moment  he  had  been  not  Tom  Kandolph 
but  the  Emperor  himself. 

He  won  the  debate,  amid  much  acclaim,  and  when 
he  came  down  to  us  I  will  confess  to  a  feeling,  which 
I  think  the  others  shared,  of  a  soul  within  his  body 
which  did  not  belong  there.  Tom  Randolph  was, 
of  course,  Tom  Randolph,  but  the  voice  which  had 
spoken  to  us  had  rung  with  the  power  of  that  other 
voice  which  had  been  stilled  at  St.  Helena ! 

The  days  that  followed  dispelled  the  illusion,  but 
121 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

the  name  clung  to  him.  I  think  he  liked  it,  and 
emphasized  the  resemblance.  He  let  his  hair  grow 
long,  sunk  his  head  between  his  shoulders,  was 
quick  and  imperious  in  his  speech. 

Then  came  the  war.  Belgium  devastated,  France 
invaded.  Kandolph  was  fired  at  once. 

"  I'm  going  over." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow " 

"  There's  our  debt  to  Lafayette." 

With  his  mind  made  up  there  was  no  moving  him. 
The  rest  of  us  held  back.  Our  imaginations  did 
not  grasp  at  once  the  world's  need  of  us. 

But  Randolph  saw  himself  a  Henry  of  Navarre — 
white  plumes;  a  Eichard  of  the  Lion  Heart — cru- 
sades and  red  crosses;  a  Cyrano  without  the  nose — 
"  These  be  cadets  of  Gascony " 

"You  see,  MacDonald,"  he  said,  flaming,  "we 
Randolphs  have  always  done  it." 

"  Done  what?  " 

"Fought.  There's  been  a  Kandolph  in  every 
war  over  here,  and  before  that  in  a  long  line  of 
battles " 

He  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the  ancient  Ran- 
dolphs, and  the  way  they  had  fought  on  caparisoned 
steeds  with  lances. 

"  War  to-day  is  different,"  I  warned  him.  "  Xot 
so  pictorial." 

But  I  knew  even  then  that  he  would  make  it 
122 


TEE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

pictorial.  He  would  wear  his  khaki  like  chain 
armor. 

He  gave  us  a  farewell  feast  in  his  room.  It  was 
the  season  for  young  squirrels,  and  he  made  us  a 
Brunswick  stew.  It  was  the  best  thing  I  had  ever 
tasted,  with  red  peppers  in  it  and  onions,  and  he 
served  it  with  an  old  silver  ladle  which  he  had 
brought  from  home. 

While  we  ate  he  talked  of  war,  of  why  men  should 
fight — "  for  your  own  honor  and  your  country's." 

There  were  pacifists  among  us  and  they  chal- 
lenged him.  He  flung  them  off ;  their  protests  died 
before  his  passion. 

"  We  are  men,  not  varlets !  " 

Nobody  laughed  at  him.  It  showed  his  power 
over  us  that  none  of  us  laughed.  We  simply  sat 
there  and  listened  while  he  told  us  what  he  thought 
of  us. 

At  last  one  who  was  braver  than  the  rest  cried 
out :  "  Go  to  it,  Bonaparte ! " 

In  a  sudden  flashing  change  Kandolph  hunched 
his  shoulders,  set  his  slouched  hat  sidewise  low  on 
his  brows,  wrapped  the  couch-cover  like  a  cloak 
about  him.  His  glance  swept  the  room.  There 
was  no  anger  in  it,  just  a  sort  of  triumphant  mock- 
ery as  he  gave  the  famous  speech  to  Berthier. 

"  They  send  us  a  challenge  in  which  our  honor  is 
at  stake — a  thing  a  Frenchman  has  never  refused — 

123 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

and  since  a  beautiful  queen  wishes  to  be  a  witness 
to  the  combat,  let  us  be  courteous,  and  in  order  not 
to  keep  her  waiting,  let  us  march  without  sleeping 

as  far  as  Saxony /  " 

I  can't  tell  you  of  the  effect  it  had  on  us.  We 
were  gripped  by  the  throats,  and  the  room  was  so 
still  that  we  heard  ourselves  breathe.  Four  of  the 
fellows  left  next  day  with  Eandolph.  I  think  he 
might  have  taken  us  all  if  we  had  not  been  advised 
and  held  back  by  the  protests  of  our  professors,  who 
spoke  of  war  with  abhorrence. 


II 

Three  years  later  I  saw  him  again,  in  France. 
Our  own  country  had  gotten  into  the  fight  by  that 
time,  and  I  was  caught  in  the  first  draft.  I  had 
heard  now  and  then  from  Randolph.  He  had 
worked  for  nearly  three  years  with  the  Ambulance 
Corps,  and  was  now  fighting  for  democracy  with 
his  fellows. 

We  had  been  shivering  in  the  rain  for  a  week  in 
one  of  the  recaptured  French  towns  when  a  group 
of  seasoned  officers  were  sent  to  lick  us  into  shape. 
Among  the  other  officers  was  Eandolph,  and  when 
he  came  upon  me  he  gave  a  shout  of  welcome. 

"Good  old  MacDonald— at  last!" 

I'll  confess  that  his  "at  last"  carried  a  sting, 
124 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

and  I  remember  feeling  the  injustice  of  our  equal 
rank,  as  I  set  his  years  of  privation  and  hardship 
against  my  few  weeks  in  a  training  camp. 

He  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  the  very  first 
night  he  made  me  a  Brunswick  stew.  This  time 
there  were  no  squirrels,  but  he  begged  young  rab- 
bits from  the  old  couple  who  had  once  been  serv- 
ants in  the  chateau  where  we  were  billeted.  They 
had  trudged  back  at  once  on  the  retirement  of  the 
Boches,  and  were  making  the  best  of  the  changed 
conditions. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  chafing-dish,  and  the 
stew  was  cooked  in  an  iron  pot  which  hung  over  an 
open  fire  in  the  ancient  kitchen.  Before  they  sold 
the  rabbits  the  old  people  had  made  one  condi- 
tion: 

"  If  we  may  have  a  bit  for  mademoiselle ?  " 

"  For  mademoiselle?  " 

"  She  is  here  with  us,  monsieur.  She  had  not 
been  well.  We  have  been  saving  the  rabbits  for 
her." 

Randolph  made  the  grand  gesture  that  I  so  well 
remembered. 

"My  good  people — if  she  would  dine  with 
us ?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  She  was  not 
sure.  She  would  see. 

Perhaps  she  said  pleasant  things  of  us,  per- 

125 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

haps  mademoiselle  was  lonely.  But  whatever  the 
reason,  mademoiselle  consented  to  dine,  coming  out 
of  her  seclusion,  very  thin  and  dark  and  small,  but 
self-possessed. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  she  thought,  in  those 
first  moments  of  meeting,  of  Randolph,  as  with  a 
spoon  for  a  sceptre,  the  manner  of  a  king,  he  pre- 
sided over  the  feast.  She  spoke  very  good  English, 
but  needed  to  have  many  things  explained. 

"  Do  gentlemen  cook  in  your  country?  " 

Randolph  sketched  life  as  he  had  known  it  on  his 
grandfather's  plantation — negroes  to  do  it  all, 
except  when  gentlemen  pleased. 

She  drew  the  mantle  of  her  distaste  about  her. 
"  Black  men?  I  shouldn't  like  it." 

Well,  I  saw  before  the  evening  ended  that  Ran- 
dolph had  met  his  peer.  For  every  one  of  his 
aristocratic  prejudices  she  matched  him  with  a 
dozen.  And  he  loved  her  for  it !  At  last  here  was 
a  lady  who  would  buckle  on  his  armor,  watch  his 
shield,  tie  her  token  on  his  sleeve ! 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  in  his  favorite 
attitude — hunched-up  shoulders,  folded  arms.  His 
hair  was  cut  too  short  now  for  the  dark  lock,  but 
even  without  it  I  saw  her  glance  at  him  now  and 
then  in  a  puzzled  fashion,  as  if  she  weighed  some 
familiar  memory. 

But  it  was  one  of  the  peasants  who  voiced  it — 
126 


THE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

the  old  man  carrying  away  the  remains  of  the  stew 
muttered  among  the  shadows  to  his  wife : 

"  C'est  Napoleon." 

Mademoiselle  caught  her  breath.  "Oui,  Gas- 
ton."  Then  to  me,  in  English :  "  Do  you  see  it?  " 

"  Yes.    We  called  him  that  at  school." 

"  Bonaparte?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  was  thin  and  dark  no  longer — illumined,  the 
color  staining  her  cheeks.  "  Oh,  if  he  were  here — 
to  save  France !  " 

I  protested.    "An  emperor  against  an  emperor?  " 

"He  was  a  great  democrat — he  loved  the  com- 
mon people.  For  a  little  while  power  spoiled  him — 
but  he  loved  the  people.  And  the  Bourbons  did 
not  love  them — Louis  laughed  at  them — and  lost 
his  head.  And  Napoleon  never  laughed.  He 
loved  France — if  he  had  lived  he  would  have  saved 
us." 

Out  of  the  shadows  the  old  woman  spoke.  "  They 
say  he  will  come  again." 

"  Oui,  Margot."  Mademoiselle  was  standing, 
with  her  hand  on  her  heart.  Randolph's  eyes  de- 
voured her.  He  had  taken  no  part  in  the  conver- 
sation. It  was  almost  uncanny  to  see  him  sitting 
there,  silent,  arms  folded,  shoulders  hunched,  spark- 
ling eyes  missing  nothing.  "  It  is  true,"  mademoi- 
selle told  us  earnestly,  "  that  the  tra-dee-tion  says 

127 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

he  will  come  back — when  France  needs  him — the 
soldiers  talk  of  it." 

"  In  almost  every  country,"  I  said,  "  there  is  a 
story  like  that,  of  heroes  who  will  come  again." 

"  But  Napoleon,  monsieur — surely  ke  would  not 
fail  France?  " 

The  thing  that  followed  was  inevitable.  Ran- 
dolph and  Mademoiselle  Julie  fell  in  love  with  each 
other.  He  drew  her  as  he  had  drawn  us  at  school. 
She  was  not  a  Madge  Ballou,  mundane  and  merce- 
nary; she  was  rather  a  Heloise,  a  Nicolette,  a 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  self -sacrificing,  impassioned.  She 
met  Randolph  on  equal  ground.  They  soared  to- 
gether— mixed  love  of  country  with  love  of  lovers. 
They  rose  at  dawn  to  worship  the  sun,  they  walked 
forth  at  twilight  to  adore  together  the  crescent 
moon. 

And  all  the  while  war  was  at  the  gates ;  we  could 
hear  the  boom  of  big  guns.  The  spring  drive  was 
on  and  the  Germans  were  coming  back. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  night  that  Randolph  and 
I  were  ordered  to  the  front.  Mademoiselle  had 
come  in  with  her  hands  full  of  violets.  Randolph, 
meeting  her  for  the  first  time  after  a  busy  day,  took 
her  hands  and  the  frail  blossoms  in  his  eager  clasp. 
He  was  an  almost  perfect  lover — Aucassin  if  you 
will — Abelard  at  his  best. 

"  Violets,"  he  said.    "  May  I  have  three?  " 
128 


TEE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

"Why  three,  monsieur?  " 

"For  love,  mademoiselle,  and  truth  and  con- 
stancy." 

He  took  his  prayer-book  from  his  pocket,  and  she 
gave  him  the  violets.  He  touched  them  to  her  lips, 
then  crushed  them  to  his  own.  I  saw  it — sitting 
back  in  the  shadows.  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  kissing  a  girl  like  that.  But  it  was  rather  won- 
derful. 

He  shut  the  violets  in  the  little  book. 

They  sat  very  late  that  night  by  the  fire.  I  went 
in  and  out,  not  disturbing  them.  I  saw  him  kneel 
at  her  feet  as  he  left  her,  and  she  bent  forward  and 
kissed  his  forehead. 

He  talked  of  her  a  great  deal  after  that.  More 
than  I  would  have  talked  of  love,  but  his  need  of 
an  audience  drove  him  to  confidences.  He  felt  that 
he  must  make  himself  worthy  of  her — to  go  back  to 
her  as  anything  less  than  a  hero  might  seem  to 
belittle  her.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  was  braver  than 
other  men,  but  his  feeling  for  effect  gave  him  a  sort 
of  reckless  courage.  Applause  was  a  part  of  the 
game — he  could  not  do  without  it. 

And  so  came  that  night  when  a  small  band  of  us 
were  cut  off  from  the  rest.  We  were  intrenched 
behind  a  small  eminence  which  hid  us  from  our 
enemies,  with  little  hope  of  long  escaping  their 
observation.  It  had  been  wet  and  cold,  and  there 

129 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

had  been  no  hot  food  for  days.  We,  French,  and 
Americans,  had  fought  long  and  hard;  we  were  in 
no  state  to  stand  suspense,  yet  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  wait  for  a  move  on  the  other  side,  a  move 
which  could  end  in  only  one  way — bayonets  and 
bare  hands,  and  I,  for  one,  hated  it. 

I  think  the  others  hated  it,  too,  all  but  Randolph. 
The  rain  had  stopped  and  the  moon  flooded  the 
world.  He  turned  his  face  up  to  it  and  dreamed. 

The  knowledge  came  to  us  before  midnight  that 
the  Huns  had  found  us.  It  became  only  a  matter 
of  moments  before  they  would  be  upon  us,  the  thing 
would  happen  which  we  hated — bayonets  and  bare 
hands,  with  the  chances  in  favor  of  the  enemy ! 

Somewhere  among  our  men  rose  a  whimper  of 
fear,  and  then  another.  You  see,  they  were  cold 
and  hungry  and  some  of  them  were  wounded,  and 
they  were  cut  off  from  hope.  It  wasn't  cowardice. 
I  call  no  man  a  coward.  They  had  faced  death  a 
thousand  times,  some  of  them.  Yet  there  was  dan- 
ger in  their  fears. 

Randolph  was  next  to  me.  "My  God,  Mac- 
Donald,"  he  said,  "  they've  lost  their  nerve " 

There  wasn't  a  second  to  spare.  I  saw  him  doing 
something  to  his  hat. 

As  I  have  said,  there  was  a  moon.  It  lighted 
that  battle-scarred  world  with  a  sort  of  wild 
beauty,  and  suddenly  in  a  clear  space  above  us  on 

130 


TEE  EMPEROR'S  GHOST 

the  little  hill  a  figure  showed,  motionless  against 
the  still  white  night — a  figure  small  yet  command- 
ing, three-cornered  hat  pulled  low — oh,  you  have 
seen  it  in  pictures  a  thousand  times — Napoleon  of 
Marengo,  of  Austerlitz,  of  Jena,  of  Friedland — but 
over  and  above  everything,  Napoleon  of  France ! 

Of  course  the  Germans  shot  him.  But  when  they 
came  over  the  top  they  were  met  by  Frenchmen 
who  had  seen  a  ghost.  "  C'est  FEmpereur !  C'est 
1'Empereur !  "  they  had  gasped.  "  He  returns  to 
lead  us." 

They  fought  like  devils,  and — well,  the  rest  of 
us  fought,  too,  and  all  the  time,  throughout  the 
bloody  business,  I  had  before  me  that  vision  of 
Kandolph  alone  in  the  moonlight.  Or  was  it  Kan- 
dolph?  Who  knows?  Do  great  souls  find  time  for 
such  small  business?  And  was  it  small? 

His  medals  were,  of  course,  sent  to  the  colonel. 
But  the  violets  in  the  little  book  went  back  to 
mademoiselle.  And  the  old  hat,  crushed  into  three- 
cornered  shape,  went  back.  And  I  told  her  what 
he  had  done. 

She  wrote  to  me  in  her  stiff  English : 

"  I  have  loved  a  great  man.  For  me,  monsieur,  it 
is  enough.  Their  souls  unite  in  victory ! " 


131 


THE  RED  CANDLE 

IT  was  so  cold  that  the  world  seemed  as  stiff  and 
stark  as  a  poet's  hell.  A  little  moon  was  frozen 
against  a  pallid  sky.  The  old  dark  houses  with 
their  towers  and  gables  wore  the  rigid  look  of  iron 
edifices.  The  saint  over  the  church  door  at  the 
corner  had  an  icicle  on  his  nose.  Even  the  street 
lights  shone  faint  and  benumbed  through  clouded 
glass. 

Ostrander,  with  his  blood  like  ice  within  his 
veins,  yearned  for  a  Scriptural  purgatory  with  red 
fire  and  flame.  To  be  warm  would  be  heaven.  It 
was  a  wise  old  Dante  who  had  made  hell  cold ! 

As  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  his  filthy  tenement 
lie  felt  for  the  first  time  a  sense  of  its  shelter. 
Within  its  walls  there  was  something  that  ap- 
proached warmth,  and  in  his  room  at  the  top  there 
was  a  bed  with  a  blanket. 

Making  his  way  toward  the  bed  and  its  promise 
of  comfort,  he  was  stopped  on  the  second  stairway 
by  a  voice  which  came  out  of  the  dark. 

"  Mr.  Tony,  you  didn't  see  our  tree." 

Peering  down,  he  answered  the  voice:  "I  was 
going  up  to  get  warm." 

132 


TEE  RED  CAUDLE 

"  Milly  said  to  tell  you  that  we  had  a  fire." 

"A  real  fire,  Pussy?  I  didn't  know  that  there 
was  one  in  the  world." 

He  came  down  again  to  the  first  floor.  Pussy 
was  waiting — a  freckled  dot  of  a  child  tied  up  in  a 
man's  coat 

The  fire  was  in  a  small  round  stove.  On  top  of 
the  stove  something  was  boiling.  The  room  was 
neat  but  bare,  the  stove,  a  table,  and  three  chairs 
its  only  furnishing.  In  a  room  beyond  were  two 
beds  covered  with  patchwork  quilts. 

On  the  table  was  a  tree.  It  was  a  Christmas 
tree — just  a  branch  of  pine  and  some  cheap 
spangly  things.  The  mother  of  the  children  sewed 
all  day  and  late  into  the  night.  She  had  worked 
a  little  longer  each  night  for  a  month  that  the 
children  might  have  the  tree. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  but  that  of  a 
small  and  smoky  lamp. 

Milly  spoke  of  it.     "  We  ought  to  have  candles." 

Ostrander,  shrugged  close  to  the  stove,  with  his 
hands  out  to  its  heat,  knew  that  they  ought  to  have 
electric  lights,  colored  ones,  a  hundred  perhaps,  and 
a  tree  that  touched  the  stars ! 

But  he  said :  "  When  I  go  out  I'll  bring  you  a 
red  candle — a  long  one — and  we'll  put  it  on  the 
shelf  over  the  table." 

Milly,  who  was  resting  her  tired  young  body  in  a 

133 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

big  rocker  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  asked :  "  Can 
we  put  it  in  a  bottle  or  stand  it  in  a  cup?  We 
kaven't  any  candlestick." 

"  We  can  do  better  than  that,"  he  told  her,  "  with 
a  saucer  turned  upside  down  and  covered  with  salt 
to  look  like  snow." 

Pussy,  economically  anxious,  asked,  "  Can  we  eat 
the  salt  afterward?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then,  may  we  do  it,  Milly?  " 

"  Darling,  yes.  How  nice  you  always  fix  things, 
Mr.  Tony!" 

Long  before  he  had  known  them  he  had  fixed 
things — things  which  would  have  turned  this  poor 
room  into  an  Aladdin's  palace.  There  was  that 
Christmas  Eve  at  the  Daltons'.  It  had  been  his 
idea  to  light  the  great  hall  with  a  thousand  candles 
when  they  brought  in  the  Yule  log,  and  to  throw 
perfumed  fagots  on  the  fire. 

He  came  back  to  the  round  stove  and  the  tiny 
tree.  "  I  like  to  fix  things,"  he  said.  "  Once  upon 
a  time " 

They  leaned  forward  eagerly  to  this  opening. 

"  Of  course  you  know  it  isn't  true,"  he  prefaced. 

"  Of  course  it  couldn't  be  true  " — Pussy  was  re- 
assuringly sceptical — "the  things  that  you  tell  us 
couldn't  really  happen — ever " 

"Well,  once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  tree  in  a 
134 


great  house  by  a  great  river,  and  it  was  set  in  a 
great  room  with  squares  of  black-and-white  marble 
for  a  floor,  and  with  a  fountain  with  goldfish  swim- 
ming in  its  basin,  and  there  were  red-and-blue  par- 
rots on  perches,  and  orange-trees  in  porcelain  pots, 
and  the  tree  itself  wasn't  a  pine-tree  or  a  fir  or  a 
cedar ;  it  was  a  queer  round,  clipped  thing  of  yew, 
and  it  had  red  and  blue  and  orange  balls  on  it,  and 
in  the  place  of  a  wax  angel  on  top  there  was  a 
golden  Buddha,  and  there  were  no  candles — but  the 
light  shone  out  and  out  of  it,  like  the  light  shines 
from  the  moon." 

"  Was  it  a  Christmas  tree?  "  Pussy  asked,  as  he 
paused. 

"  Yes,  but  the  people  who  trimmed  it  and  the  ones 
who  came  to  see  it  didn't  believe  in  the  Wise  Men, 
or  the  Babe  in  the  Manger,  or  the  shepherds  who 
watched  their  flocks  by  night — they  just  wor- 
shiped beauty  and  art — and  other  gods — but  it 
was  a  corking  tree " 

"You  use  such  funny  words,"  Pussy  crowed 
ecstatically.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  a  corking  tree?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  indulgently.  He  was  warmer 
now,  and  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  un- 
buttoned his  coat  he  seemed  to  melt  suddenly  into 
something  that  was  quite  gentlemanly  in  pose  and 
outline.  "Well,  it  really  was  a  corking  tree, 
Pussy." 

135 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

"What's  a  Buddha?"  Milly  asked,  making  a 
young  Madonna  of  herself  as  she  bent  over  the 
baby. 

"A  gentle  god  that  half  of  the  world  worships," 
Ostrander  said,  "but  the  people  who  put  him  on 
the  tree  didn't  worship  anything — they  put  him 
there  because  he  was  of  gold  and  ivory  and  was  a 
lovely  thing  to  look  at " 

"  Oh,"  said  Pussy,  with  her  mouth  round  to  say 
it,  "  oh,  how  funny  you  talk,  Mr.  Tony ! "  She 
laughed,  with  her  small  hands  beating  her  knees. 

She  was  presently,  however,  very  serious,  as  she 
set  the  table.  There  was  little  formality  of  service. 
Just  three  plates  and  some  bread. 

Milly,  having  carried  the  baby  into  the  other 
room,  was  hesitatingly  hospitable.  "  Won't  you 
have  supper  with  us,  Mr.  Tony?  " 

He  wanted  it.  There  was  a  savory  smell  as 
Milly  lifted  the  pot  from  the  stove.  But  he  knew 
there  would  be  only  three  potatoes — one  for  Pussy 
and  one  for  Milly  and  one  for  the  mother  who  was 
almost  due,  and  there  would  be  plenty  of  gravy. 
How  queer  it  seemed  that  his  mind  should  dwell  on 
gravy! 

"  Onions  are  so  high,"  Milly  had  said,  as  she 
stirred  it.  "  I  had  to  put  in  just  a  very  little  piece." 

He  declined  hastily  and  got  away. 

In  the  hall  he  met  their  mother  coming  in.  She 
136 


THE  RED  CANDLE 

•was  a  busy  little  mother,  and  slie  did  not  approve  of 
Ostrander.  She  did  not  approve  of  any  human  be- 
ing who  would  not  work. 

"A  merry  Christmas,"  he  said  to  her,  standing 
somewhat  wistfully  above  her  on  the  stairs. 

She  smiled  at  that.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Tony,  Mr.  Tony, 
they  want  a  man  in  the  shop.  It  would  be  a  good 
way  to  begin  the  New  Year." 

"Dear  lady,  I  have  never  worked  in  a  shop — 
and  they  wouldn't  want  me  after  the  first  min- 
ute  " 

Her  puzzled  eyes  studied  him.  "  Why  wouldn't 
they  want  you?  " 

"  I  am  not— dependable " 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"  Twice  your  age " 

"  Nonsense " 

"Not  in  years,  perhaps — but  I  have  lived — oh, 
how  I  have  lived !  " 

He  straightened  his  shoulders  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  hair.  She  had  a  sudden  vision  of  what 
he  might  be  if  shorn  of  his  poverty.  There  was 
something  debonair — finished — an  almost  youthful 
grace — a  hint  of  manner 

She  sighed.     "  Oh,  the  waste  of  it ! " 

"  Of  what?  " 

She  flamed.     "  Of  you ! " 

Then  she  went  in  and  shut  the  door. 
137 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

He  stood  uncertainly  in  the  hall.  Then  once 
again  he  faced  the  cold. 

Around  the  corner  was  a  shop  where  he  would 
buy  the  red  candle.  The  ten  cents  which  he  would 
pay  was  to  have  gone  for  his  breakfast.  He  had 
sacrificed  his  supper  that  he  might  not  go  hungry 
on  Christmas  morning.  He  had  planned  a  brace  of 
rolls  and  a  bottle  of  milk.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  face  a  lean  night  with  the  promise  of 
these. 

There  were  no  red  candles  in  the  shop.  There 
were  white  ones,  but  a  red  candle  was  a  red  can- 
dle— with  a  special  look  of  Christmas  cheer.  He 
would  have  no  other. 

The  turn  of  a  second  corner  brought  him  to  the 
great  square.  Usually  he  avoided  it.  The  blaze 
of  gold  on  the  west  side  was  the  club. 

A  row  of  motors  lined  the  curb.  There  was  Bax- 
ter's limousine  and  Penton's  French  car.  He  knew 
them  all.  He  remembered  when  his  own  French 
car  had  overshadowed  Fenton's  Ford. 

There  were  wreaths  to-night  in  the  club  windows, 
and  when  Sands  opened  the  doors  there  was  a  mass 
of  poinsettia  against  the  hall  mirror. 

How  warm  it  looked  with  all  that  gold  and 
red! 

In  the  basement  was  the  grill.  It  was  a  night 
when  one  might  order  something  heavy  and  hot. 

138 


TEE  RED  CAUDLE 

A  planked  steak — with  deviled  oysters  at  tlie  start 
and  a  salad  at  the  end. 

And  now  another  motor-car  was  poking  its  nose 
against  the  curb.  And  Whiting  climbed  out,  a  bear 
in  a  big  fur  coat. 

Whiting's  car  was  a  closed  one.  And  it  would 
stay  there  for  an  hour.  Ostrander  knew  the  habits 
of  the  man.  From  the  office  to  the  club,  and  from 
the  club — home.  Whiting  was  methodical  to  a 
minute.  At  seven  sharp  the  doors  would  open  and 
let  him  out. 

The  clock  on  the  post-office  tower  showed  six ! 

There  was  a  policeman  on  the  east  corner,  beat- 
ing his  arms  against  the  cold.  Ostrander  did  not 
beat  his  arms.  He  cowered  f  rozenly  in  the  shadow 
of  a  big  building  until  the  policeman  passed  on. 

Then  he  darted  across  the  street  and  into  Whit- 
ing's car ! 

Whiting,  coming  out  in  forty  minutes,  found  his 
car  gone.  Sands,  the  door  man,  said  that  he  had 
noticed  nothing.  The  policeman  on  the  corner  had 
not  noticed. 

"  I  usually  stay  longer,"  Whiting  said,  "  but  to- 
night I  wanted  to  get  home.  I  have  a  lot  of  things 
for  the  kids." 

"  Were  the  things  in  your  car?  "  the  policeman 
asked. 

"  Yes.    Toys  and  all  that " 

139 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Ostrander,  with  his  hand  on  the  wheel,  his  feet 
on  the  brakes,  slipped  through  the  crowded  streets 
unchallenged.  It  had  been  easy  to  unlock  the 
car.  He  had  learned  many  things  in  these  later 
years. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  he  was  aware  of 
faint  fragrances — warm  tropical  fragrances  of 
flowers  and  fruits  and  spices — Christmas  fra- 
grances which  sent  him  back  to  the  great  kitchen 
where  his  grandmother's  servants  had  baked  and 
brewed. 

He  stopped  the  car  and  touched  a  button.  The 
light  showed  booty.  He  had  not  expected  this. 
He  had  wanted  the  car  for  an  hour,  to  feel  the  thrill 
of  it  under  his  fingers,  to  taste  again  the  luxury  of 
its  warmth  and  softness.  He  had  meant  to  take  it 
back  unharmed — with  nothing  more  than  the  rest- 
less ghost  of  his  poor  desires  to  haunt  Whiting 
when  again  he  entered  it. 

But  now  here  were  toys  and  things  which  Whit- 
ing, in  a  climax  of  generosity,  had  culled  from 
bake-shop  and  grocer,  from  flower-shop,  fruit-shop, 
and  confectioner. 

He  snapped  out  the  light  and  drove  on.  He  had 
still  a  half -hour  for  his  adventure. 

It  took  just  three  of  the  thirty  minutes  to  slide 
up  to  the  curb  in  front  of  the  tall  tenement.  He 
made  three  trips  in  and  up  to  the  top  floor.  He 

140 


risked  much,  but  Fate  was  with  him  and  he  met 
no  one. 

Fate  was  with  him,  too,  when  he  left  the  car  at  a 
corner  near  the  club,  and  slipped  out  of  it  like  a 
shadow,  and  thence  like  a  shadow  back  to  the  shop 
whence  his  steps  had  tended  before  his  adventures. 

When  he  returned  to  the  tall  tenement  the  small 
family  on  the  first  floor  had  finished  supper,  and 
the  mother  had  gone  back  to  work.  The  baby  was 
asleep.  Hilly  and  Pussy,  wrapped  up  to  their  ears, 
were  hugging  the  waning  warmth  of  the  little  stove. 

"Mr.  Tony,  did  you  get  the  candle?"  Pussy 
asked  as  he  came  in. 

"  Yes.  But  I've  been  thinking  " — his  manner 
was  mysterious — "I  don't  want  to  put  it  on  the 
shelf.  I  want  it  in  the  window — to  shine  out 

"  To  shine  out — why?  " 

/'  Well,  you  know,  there's  St.  Nicholas." 

«Oh " 

"  He  ought  to  come  here,  Pussy.  Wiry  shouldn't 
he  come  here?  Why  should  he  go  up-town  and  up- 
town, and  take  all  the  things  to  children  who  have 
more  than  they  want?  " 

Milly  was  philosophic.  "  St.  Nicholas  is  fathers 
and  mothers " 

But  Pussy  was  not  so  sure.  "  Do  you  think  he'd 
come — if  we  did?  Do  you  really  and  truly  think 
he  would?  " 

141 


"  I  think  lie  might 


The  candle  set  in  the  window  made  a  fine  show 
from  the  street.  They  all  went  out  to  look  at  it. 
Coming  in,  they  sat  around  the  stove  together. 

Pussy  drew  her  chair  very  close  to  Ostrander. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee.  It  was  a  little  hand 
with  short,  fat  fingers.  In  spite  of  lean  living, 
Pussy  had  managed  to  keep  fat.  She  was  adorably 
dimpled. 

Ostrander,  looking  down  at  the  fat  little  hand, 
began :  "  Once  upon  a  time — there  was  a  doll — 
a  Fluffy  Ruffles  doll,  in  a  rosy  gown " 

"  Oh ! "  Pussy  beat  the  small,  fat  hand  upon  his 
knee. 

"And  pink  slippers — and  it  traveled  miles  to 
find  some  one  to — love  it.  And  at  last  it  said  to 
St.  Nicholas,  '  Oh,  dear  St.  Nick,  I  want  to  find  a 
little  girl  who  hasn't  any  doll '  " 

"Like  me?"  said  Pussy. 

"  Like  you " 

"And  St.  Nicholas  said,  'Will  you  keep  your 
pink  slippers  clean  and  your  nice  pink  frock  clean 
if  I  give  you  to  a  poor  little  girl? '  and  the  Fluffy 
Euffles  doll  said  '  Yes/  so  St.  Nicholas  looked  and 
looked  for  a  poor  little  girl,  and  at  last  he  came  to 
a  window — with  a  red  candle " 

The  fat  little  hand  was  still  and  Pussy  was 
breathing  hard. 

142 


THE  RED  CANDLE 

"  With  a  red  candle,  and  there  was  a  little  girl 
who — didn't  have  any  doll " 

Pussy  threw  herself  on  him  bodily.  "  Is  it  true? 
Is  it  true?  "  she  shrieked. 

Milly,  a  little  flushed  and  excited  by  the  story, 
tried  to  say  sedately :  "  Of  course  it  isn't  true.  It 
couldn't  be — true " 

"Let's  wish  it  to  be  true — "  Ostrander  said, 
"  all  three  of  us,  with  our  eyes  shut " 

With  this  ceremony  completed  the  little  girls 
were  advised  gravely  to  go  to  bed.  "  If  Fluffy 
Ruffles  and  old  St.  Nick  come  by  and  find  you  up 
they  won't  stop " 

"  Won't  they?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  You  must  shut  the  door  and 
creep  under  your  quilt  and  cover  up  your  head,  and 
if  you  hear  a  noise  you  mustn't  look." 

Milly  eyed  him  dubiously.  "  I  think  it  is  a 
shame  to  tell  Pussy  such " 

"  Corking  things?  "  He  lifted  her  chin  with  a 
light  finger  and  looked  into  her  innocent  eyes. 
"  Oh,  Milly,  Milly,  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a 
Princess,  with  eyes  like  yours,  and  she  lived  in  a 
garden  where  black  swans  swam  on  a  pool,  and  she 
wore  pale-green  gowns  and  there  were  poppies  in  the 
garden.  And  a  Fool  loved  her.  But  she  shut 
him  out  of  the  garden.  He  wasn't  good  enough 
even  to  kneel  at  her  feet,  so  she  shut  him  out  and 

143 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

married  a  Prince  with  a  white  feather  in  his 
cap." 

He  had  a  chuckling  sense  of  Whiting  as  the 
white-feathered  Prince.  But  Milly's  eyes  were 
clouded.  "  I  don't  like  to  think  that  she  shut  the 
poor  Fool  out  of  the  garden." 

For  a  moment  he  cupped  her  troubled  face  in  his 
two  hands.  "  You  dear  kiddie."  Then  as  he 
turned  away  he  found  his  own  eyes  wet. 

As  he  started  up-stairs  Pussy  peeped  out  at  him. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  —  corking  —  to  see  a  Fluffy 
Euffles  doll — a-walking  up  the  street?  " 

In  a  beautiful  box  up-stairs  the  Fluffy  Euffles 
doll  stared  at  him.  She  was  as  lovely  as  a  dream, 
and  as  expensive  as  they  make  'em.  There  was 
another  doll  in  blue,  also  as  expensive,  also  as 
lovely.  Ostrander  could  see  Hilly  with  the  blue 
doll  matching  her  eyes. 

There  were  toys,  too,  for  the  baby.  And  there 
was  a  bunch  of  violets.  And  boxes  of  candy.  And 
books.  And  there  were  things  to  eat.  Besides  the 
fruits  a  great  cake,  and  a  basket  of  marmalades 
and  jellies  and  gold-sealed  bottles  and  meat  pastes 
in  china  jars,  and  imported  things  in  glass,  and 
biscuits  in  tins. 

Ostrander,  after  some  consideration,  opened  the 
tin  of  biscuits  and,  munching,  he  wrote  a  note. 
Having  no  paper,  he  tore  a  wrapper  from  one  of  the 

144 


THE  RED  CANDLE 

boxes.    He  had  the  stub  of  a  pencil,  and  the  result 
was  a  scrawl. 

"  MY  DEAR  WHITING  : 

••  It  was  I  who  borrowed  your  car — and  who 
ran  away  with  your  junk.  I  am  putting  my  address 
at  the  head  of  this,  so  that  if  you  want  it  back  you 
can  come  and  get  it.  But  perhaps  you  won't  want 
it  back. 

"  I  have  a  feeling  that  to  you  and  your  wife  I  am 
as  good  as  dead.  If  you  have  any  thought  of  me  it 
is,  I  am  sure,  to  pity  me.  Yet  I  rather  fancy  that 
you  needn't.  I  am  down  and  out,  and  living  on  ten 
dollars  a  month.  That's  all  I  got  when  the  crash 
came — it  is  all  I  shall  ever  get.  I  pay  four  dollars 
a  month  for  my  room  and  twenty  cents  a  day  for 
food.  Sometimes  I  pay  less  than  twenty  cents 
when  I  find  myself  in  need  of  other — luxuries. 
Yet  there's  an  adventure  in  it,  Whiting.  A  good 
little  woman  who  lives  in  this  house  begs  me  to 
work.  But  I  have  never  worked.  And  why  begin? 
I've  a  heritage  of  bad  habits,  and  one  does  not  wish 
to  seem  superior  to  one's  ancestors. 

"  The  winters  are  the  worst.  I  spend  the  sum- 
mers on  the  open  road.  Ask  Marion  if  she  remem- 
bers the  days  when  we  read  Stevenson  together  in 
the  garden?  Tell  her  it  is  like  that — under  the 

stars Tell  her  that  I  am  getting  more  out  of 

it  than  she  is — with  you 

"  But  the  winters  send  me  back  to  town — and 
this  winter  Fate  has  brought  me  to  an  old  house  in 
a  shabby  street  just  a  bit  back  from  the  Club.  On 
the  first  floor  there  is  a  little  family.  Three  kid- 

145 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

dies  and  a  young  mother  who  works  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door.  There's  a  Pussy-Kiddie,  and  a 
Milly-Kiddie,  and  a  baby,  and  they  have  adopted 
me  as  a  friend. 

"  And  this  Christmas  I  had  nothing  to  give  them 
— but  a  red  candle  to  light  their  room. 

"When  I  got  into  your  car  it  was  just  for  the 
adventure.  To  breathe  for  a  moment  the  air  I  once 
breathed — to  fancy  that  Marion's  ghost  might  sit 
beside  me  for  one  little  moment,  as  she  will  sit  be- 
side you  to  the  end  of  your  days. 

"  I  have  played  all  roles  but  that  of  robber — but 
when  I  saw  the  things  that  you  had  bought  with 
Marion's  money  for  Marion's  children — it  went  to 
my  head — and  I  wanted  them  in  the  worst  way  for 
those  poor  kiddies — who  haven't  any  dolls  or 
Christmas  dinners. 

"  I  am  playing  Santa  Claus  for  them  to-night. 
I  shall  take  the  things  down  and  leave  them  in  their 
poor  rooms.  It  will  be  up  to  you  to  come  and  take 
them  away.  It  will  be  up  to  you,  too,  to  give  this 
note  to  the  police  and  steal  my  freedom. 

"  You  used  to  be  a  good  sport,  Whiting.  I  have 
nothing  against  you  except  that  you  stole  Marion — 
perhaps  this  will  square  our  accounts.  And  if 
your  children  are,  because  of  me,  without  their 
dolls  to-morrow,  you  can  remember  this,  that  the 
kiddies  are  happy  below  stairs — since  Dick  Turpin 
dwells  aloft! 

"  From  among  the  rest  I  have  chosen  for  myself 
a  squat  bottle,  a  box  of  biscuits,  and  a  tin  of  the 
little  imported  sausages  that  you  taught  me  to  like. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  happy  days !  To-morrow 
146 


THE  RED  CANDLE 

morning  I  shall  breakfast  at  your  expense,  unless 
you  shall  decide  that  I  must  breakfast  behind  bars. 
"  If  you  should  come  to-night,  you  will  find  in  the 
window  a  red  candle  shining.  They  have  put  it 
there  to  guide  St.  Nicholas  and  a  certain  Fluffy 
Ruffles  doll! 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  TONY." 

He  found  an  envelope,  sealed,  and  addressed  it. 
Then  he  went  to  work. 

Four  trips  he  made  down  the  stairs.  Four  times 
he  tiptoed  into  the  shadowed  room,  where  the  long 
red  candle  burned.  And  when  he  turned  to  take  a 
last  look  there  on  the  table  beside  the  tree  stood  the 
blue  doll  for  Milly  and  the  Fluffy  Ruffles  doll  for 
Pussy  and  the  rattles  and  rings  and  blocks  for  the 
baby,  and  on  the  chairs  and  the  shelf  above  the  tree 
were  the  other  things — the  great  cake  and  the  fruit 
and  the  big  basket  and  the  boxes  of  candy. 

And  for  the  little  mother  there  were  the  violets 
and  a  note : 

"  The  red  candle  winked  at  your  window  and 
brought  me  in.  It  is  useless  to  search  for  me — for 
now  and  then  a  Prince  passes  and  goes  on.  And 
he  is  none  the  less  a  Prince  because  you  do  not 
know  him." 

And  now  there  was  that  other  note  to  deliver. 
Out  in  the  cold  once  more,  he  found  the  moon  gone 

147 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

and  the  snow  falling.  As  lie  passed  the  saint  on 
the  old  church  it  seemed  to  smile  down  at  him. 
The  towers  and  gables  were  sheeted  with  white. 
His  footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the  padded  streets. 

He  left  the  note  at  Whiting's  door.  He  fancied 
that,  as  the  footman  held  it  open,  he  saw  Marion 
shining  on  the  stairs ! 

He  was  glad  after  that  to  get  home  and  to  bed, 
and  to  the  warmth  of  his  blanket.  There  was  the 
warmth,  too,  of  the  wine. 

In  a  little  while  he  was  asleep.  On  the  table  by 
his  untidy  bed  was  the  box  of  biscuits  and  the 
bottle  and  the  tin  of  tiny  sausages. 

If  all  went  well  he  would  feast  like  a  lord  on 
Christmas  morning ! 


RETURNED  GOODS 

PEEHAPS  the  most  humiliating  moment  of  Dulcie 
Cowan's  childhood  had  been  when  Mary  Dean  had 
called  her  Indian  giver.  Dulcie  was  a  child  of 
affluence.  She  had  always  had  everything  she 
wanted;  but  she  had  not  been  spoiled.  She  had 
been  brought  up  beautifully  and  she  had  been 
taught  to  consider  the  rights  of  others.  She  lived 
in  an  old-fashioned  part  of  an  old  city,  and  her 
family  was  churchly  and  conscientious.  Indeed,  so 
well-trained  was  Dulcie's  conscience  that  it  often 
caused  her  great  unhappiness.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  life  was  made  up  largely  of  denying  her- 
self the  things  she  wanted.  She  was  tied  so  rigidly 
to  the  golden  rule  that  her  own  rights  were  being 
constantly  submerged  in  the  consideration  of  the 
rights  of  others. 

So  it  had  happened  that  when  she  gave  to  Mary 
Dean  a  certain  lovely  doll,  because  her  mother  had 
suggested  that  Dulcie  had  so  many  and  Mary  so 
few,  Dulcie  had  spent  a  night  of  agonized  lone- 
liness. Then  she  had  gone  to  Mary. 

"  I  want  my  Peggy  back." 
149 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  You  gave  her  to  me." 

"  But  I  didn't  know  how  much  I  loved  her,  Mary. 
I'll  buy  you  a  nice  new  doll,  but  I  want  my  Peggy 
back." 

It  was  then  that  Mary  had  called  her  Indian 
giver.  Mary  had  been  a  sturdy  little  thing  with 
tight-braided  brown  hair.  She  had  worn  on  that 
historic  occasion  a  plain  blue  gingham  with  a  white 
collar.  To  the  ordinary  eye  she  seemed  just  an 
every-day  freckled  sort  of  child,  but  to  Dulcie  she 
had  been  a  little  dancing  devil,  as  she  had  stuck  out 
her  forefinger  and  jeered  "  Indian  giver ! " 

Dulcie  had  held  to  her  point  and  had  carried  her 
Peggy  off  in  triumph.  Mary,  with  characteristic 
independence,  had  refused  to  accept  the  beautiful 
doll  which  Dulcie  bought  with  the  last  cent  of  her 
allowance  and  brought  as  a  peace  offering.  In 
later  years  they  grew  to  be  rather  good  friends. 
They  might,  indeed,  have  been  intimate,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Dulcie's  money  and  Mary's  dislike  of 
anything  which  savored  of  patronage. 

It  was  Mary's  almost  boyish  independence  that 
drew  Mills  Eichardson  to  her.  Mills  wrote  books 
and  was  the  editor  of  a  small  magazine.  He  came 
to  board  with  Mary's  mother  because  of  the  quiet 
neighborhood.  He  was  rather  handsome  in  a  dark 
slender  fashion.  He  had  the  instincts  of  a  poet, 
and  he  was  not  in  the  least  practical.  He  needed 

150 


RETURNED  GOODS 

a  prop  to  lean  on,  and  Mary  gradually  became  the 
prop. 

She  was  teaching  by  that  time,  but  she  helped 
her  mother  with  the  boarders.  When  Mills  came 
in  late  at  night  she  would  have  something  for  him 
in  the  dining-room — oysters  or  a  club  sandwich  or 
a  pot  of  coffee — and  she  and  her  mother  and  Mills 
would  have  a  cozy  time  of  it.  In  due  season  Mills 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  his  dreams  had  to  do 
with  increased  snugness  and  with  shelter  from  the 
outside  world. 

They  had  been  engaged  three  months  when  Dul- 
cie  came  home  from  college.  There  was  nothing 
independent  or  practical  about  Dulcie.  She  was  a 
real  romantic  lady,  and  she  appealed  to  Mills  on  the 
aesthetic  side.  He  saw  her  first  in  church  with  the 
light  shining  on  her  from  a  stained-glass  window. 
In  the  middle  of  that  same  week  Mrs.  Cowan  gave 
a  garden  party  as  a  home-coming  celebration  for 
her  daughter.  Dulcie  wore  embroidered  white  and 
a  floppy  hat,  and  her  eyes  when  she  talked  to  Mills 
were  worshipful. 

He  found  himself  swayed  at  last  by  a  grand  pas- 
sion. He  thought  of  Dulcie  by  day  and  dreamed  of 
her  by  night.  Then  he  met  her  by  accident  one 
afternoon  on  Connecticut  Avenue,  and  they  walked 
down  together  to  the  Speedway,  where  the  willows 
were  blowing  in  the  wind  and  the  water  was  ruf- 

151 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

fled ;  and  there  with  the  shining  city  back  of  tkem 
and  the  Virginia  hills  ahead,  Mills,  naming,  de- 
clared his  passion,  and  Dulcie,  trembling,  con- 
fessed that  she  too  cared. 

Mills  grew  tragic:  "Oh,  my  beloved,  have  you 
come  too  late?  " 

Dulcie  had  not  heard  of  his  engagement  to  Mary. 
Mills  told  her,  and  that  settled  it.  She  had  very 
decided  ideas  on  such  matters.  A  man  had  no  right 
to  fall  in  love  with  two  women.  If  such  a  thing 
happened,  there  was  only  one  way  out  of  it.  He 
had  given  his  promise  and  he  must  keep  it.  He 
begged,  but  could  not  shake  her.  She  cared  a  great 
deal,  but  she  would  not  take  him  away  from  Mary. 

Mary  knew  nothing  of  what  had  occurred;  she 
thought  that  Mills  was  working  too  hard.  She  was 
working  hard  herself,  but  she  was  very  happy. 
She  had  a  hope  chest  and  sat  up  sewing  late  o' 
nights. 

Before  Mary  and  Mills  were  married  Dulcie's 
mother  died,  and  Dulcie  went  abroad  to  live  with 
an  aunt.  Five  years  later  she  married  an  Amer- 
ican living  in  Paris.  He  was  much  older  than  she, 
and  it  was  rumored  that  she  was  not  happy.  Ten 
years  after  her  marriage  she  returned  to  Washing- 
ton a  widow. 

It  was  at  once  apparent  that  she  had  changed. 
She  wore  charming  but  sophisticated  clothes,  made 

152 


RETURNED  GOODS 

on  youthful  lines  so  that  she  seemed  nearer  twenty- 
five  than  thirty-five.  Her  hair  was  still  soft  and 
shining.  She  had  been  a  pretty  girl,  she  was  a 
beautiful  woman.  But  the  greatest  change  was  in 
her  attitude  toward  life.  In  Paris  her  golden-rule 
philosophy  had  been  turned  topsy-turvy. 

Hence  when  she  met  Mills  and  found  the  old 
flames  lighted  in  his  eyes,  she  stirred  the  ashes  of 
her  dead  romance  and  discovered  a  spark.  It  was 
pleasant  after  that  to  talk  with  him  in  dim  corners 
at  people's  houses.  Xow  and  then  she  invited  him 
and  Mary  to  her  own  big  house  with  plenty  of  other 
guests,  so  that  she  was  not  missed  if  she  walked 
with  Mills  in  the  garden.  She  meant  no  harm  and 
she  was  really  fond  of  Mary. 

The  years  had  not  been  so  kind  to  Mills  as  to 
Dulcfe.  They  had  stolen  some  of  his  slenderness, 
and  his  hair  was  thin  at  the  back.  But  he  wrote 
better  books,  and  it  was  Mary  who  had  helped  him 
write  them.  She  had  made  of  his  house  a  home. 
She  was  still  the  same  sturdy  soul.  Her  bright 
color  had  faded  and  her  hair  was  gray.  Life  with 
Mills  had  not  been  an  easy  road  to  travel.  She  had 
traveled  it  with  loss  of  youth,  perhaps,  but  with 
no  loss  of  self-respect.  She  knew  that  her  husband 
was  in  some  measure  what  he  was  because  of  her. 
She  had  kept  the  children  away  from  his  study 
door ;  she  had  seen  that  he  was  nourished  and  sus- 

163 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

tained.  She  had  prodded  him  at  times  to  increased 
activities.  He  had  resented  the  prodding,  but  it 
had  resulted  in  a  continuity  of  effort  which  had 
added  to  his  income. 

Dulcie  came  into  Mary's  life  as  something  very 
fresh  and  stimulating.  She  spoke  of  it  to  Mills. 

"  It  is  almost  as  if  I  had  been  abroad  to  hear  her 
talk.  She  has  had  such  interesting  experiences." 

It  was  not  Dulcie's  experiences  which  interested 
Mills ;  it  was  the  loveliness  of  her  profile,  the  glint 
of  her  hair,  the  youth  in  her,  the  renewed  urge  of 
youth  in  himself. 

Priscilla  Dodd  saw  what  had  happened.  Priscilla 
was  the  aunt  with  whom  Dulcie  had  lived  in  Paris ; 
and  she  was  a  wise,  if  worldly,  old  woman.  She 
saw  rocks  ahead  for  Dulcie. 

"  He's  in  love  with  you,  my  dear." 

Dulcie,  in  a  rose  satin  house  coat  which  shone 
richly  in  the  flame  of  Aunt  Priscilla's  open  fire,  was 
not  disconcerted. 

"  I  know.     Mary  doesn't  satisfy  him,  Aunt  Cilia." 

"And  you  do?  " 

"Yes." 

"  The  less  you  see  of  him  the  better." 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  can  inspire  him,  be  the  torch  to  illumine  his 
path." 

154 


RETURNED  GOODS 

"  So  that's  the  way  you  are  putting  it  to  your- 
self !  But  how  will  Mary  like  that?  " 

"  Oh,  Mary  " — Dulcie  moved  restlessly — "  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  Mary.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  Mary," 
she  said  again,  out  of  a  long  silence,  "  but  after  all 
I  have  a  right  to  save  Mills'  soul  for  him,  haven't  I, 
Aunt  Cilia?  " 

"  Saving  souls  had  better  be  left  to  those  who 
make  a  business  of  it." 

"I  mean  his  poetic  soul."  Dulcie  studied  the 
toes  of  her  rosy  slippers.  "A  man  can't  live  by 
bread  alone." 

Yet  Mills  had  thrived  rather  well  on  the  bread 
that  Mary  had  given  him,  and  there  was  this  to  say 
for  Mills,  he  was  very  fond  of  his  wife.  She  was 
not  the  love  of  his  life,  but  she  had  been  a  help- 
mate for  many  years.  He  felt  that  he  owed  many 
things  to  her  affection  and  strength.  Like  Dulcie, 
he  shrank  from  making  her  unhappy. 

It  was  because  of  Mary,  therefore,  that  the  lovers 
dallied.  Otherwise,  they  said  to  each  other,  Mills 
would  cast  off  his  shackles,  ask  for  his  freedom,  and 
then  he  and  Dulcie  would  fly  to  Paris,  where  no- 
body probed  into  pasts  and  where  they  could  make 
their  dreams  come  true. 

They  found  many  ways  in  which  to  see  each  other. 
Dulcie  had  a  little  town  car,  and  she  picked  Mills 
up  at  all  hours  and  took  him  on  long  and  lovely 

155 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

rides,  from  which  he  returned  ecstatic,  with  wild 
flowers  in  his  coat  and  a  knowledge  of  work  left 
undone. 

Gossip  began  to  fly  about.  Aunt  Priscilla  warned 
Dulcie. 

"  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  do,  my  dear.  People 
will  talk." 

"  What  do  Mills  and  I  care  for  people?  Oh,  if  it 

were  not  for  Mary "  She  had  just  come  in  from 

a  ride  with  Mills,  and  her  eyes  were  shining. 

"  I  wish  we  were  not  dining  there  to-night,"  said 
Aunt  Priscilla.  "  I  wonder  how  Mary  manages  a 
dinner  of  eight  with  only  one  servant." 

"  She  is  so  splendid  and  competent,  Aunt  Cilia. 
Mills  says  so.  Everybody  says  it.  Things  are 
easy  for  her  that  would  be  hard  for  other  people." 

"  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  you?  " 

Dulcie,  drawing  off  her  gloves,  meditated. 

"I  fancy  she  likes  me.  I  know  I  love  her,  but 
not  so  much  as  I  love  Mills." 

Fifteen  years  ago  Dulcie  would  have  died  rather 
than  admit  her  love  for  a  married  man.  But  since 
then  she  had  seen  life  through  the  eyes  of  a  worldly- 
minded  old  husband,  and  it  had  made  a  difference. 

At  dinner  that  night  Dulcie  was  exquisite  in 
orchid  tulle  with  a  string  of  pearls  that  hung  to 
her  knees.  Her  hair  was  like  ripe  corn,  waved  and 
parted  on  the  side  with  a  girlish  knot  behind.  Her 

156 


RETURNED  GOODS 

skin  was  as  fresh  as  a  baby's.  Mary  was  in  black 
net.  She  had  been  very  busy  helping  the  cook,  and 
she  had  had  little  time  to  spend  on  her  hair.  She 
looked  ten  years  older  than  Dulcie,  and  her  mind 
was  absolutely  on  the  dinner.  The  dinner  was 
really  very  good.  Mills  had  been  extremely 
anxious  about  it.  He  had  called  up  Mary  from 
down-town  to  tell  her  that  he  was  bringing  home 
fresh  asparagus.  He  wanted  it  served  as  an  extra 
course  with  Hollandaise  sauce.  Mary  protested, 
but  gave  in.  It  was  the  Hollandaise  sauce  that 
had  kept  her  from  curling  her  hair. 

There  were  orchids  for  a  centerpiece — in  har- 
mony with  Dulcie's  gown.  In  fact,  the  whole 
dinner  seemed  keyed  up  to  Dulcie.  The  guests 
were  for  the  most  part  literary  folk,  to  whom  Mills 
wanted  to  display  his  Egeria.  After  dinner  Dulcie 
sang  for  them.  She  had  set  to  music  the  words  of 
one  of  Mills'  poems,  and  she  was  much  applauded. 

After  everybody  had  gone  Mary  went  to  bed  with 
a  headache.  She  was  glad  that  it  was  Saturday, 
for  Sunday  promised  a  rest.  She  decided  to  send 
the  children  over  to  her  mother  and  to  have  a  quiet 
day  with  Mills.  She  wouldn't  even  go  to  church  in 
the  morning.  There  was  an  afternoon  service; 
perhaps  she  and  Mills  might  go  together. 

But  Mills  had  other  plans.  He  walked  as  far  as 
the  church  door  with  Mary,  and  left  her  there. 

157 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Mary  wasn't  sorry  to  be  left;  her  headache  had 
returned,  and  she  was  glad  to  sit  alone  in  the 
peaceful  dimness.  But  the  pain  proved  finally  too 
much  for  her,  so  she  slipped  out  quietly  and  went 
home. 

Clouds  had  risen,  and  she  hurried  before  the 
shower.  It  was  a  real  April  shower,  wind  with  a 
rush  and  a  silver  downpour.  Mary,  coming  into 
the  dark  living-room,  threw  herself  on  the  couch  in 
a  far  corner  and  drew  a  rug  over  her.  The  couch 
was  backed  up  against  a  table  which  held  a  lamp 
and  a  row  of  books.  Mary  had  a  certain  feeling  of 
content  in  the  way  the  furniture  seemed  to  shut  her 
in.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  splashing  of  rain 
against  the  windows. 

She  fell  asleep  at  last,  and  waked  to  find  that 
Mills  and  Dulcie  had  come  in.  No  lights  were  on ; 
the  room  was  in  twilight  dimness. 

Mills  had  met  Dulcie  at  her  front  door.  "  How 
dear  of  you  to  come,"  she  had  told  him. 

He  had  spoken  of  his  desertion  of  Mary.  "  But 
this  day  was  made  for  you,  Dulcie." 

They  had  walked  on  together,  not  heeding  where 
they  went,  and  when  the  storm  had  caught  them 
they  were  nearer  Mills'  house  than  Dulcie's  and  so 
he  had  taken  her  there.  They  had  entered  the 
apparently  empty  room. 

"Mary  is  still  at  church.  Come  and  dry  your 
153 


RETURNED  GOODS 

little  feet  by  my  fire,  Dulcie."    Mills  knelt  and 
fanned  the  flame. 

Mary,  coming  slowly  back  from  her  dreams, 
heard  this  and  other  things,  and  at  last  Dulcie's 
voice  in  protest : 

"  Dear,  we  must  think  of  Mary." 

"  Poor  Mary !  " 

Now  the  thing  that  Mary  hated  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  whole  world  was  pity.  Through 
all  the  shock  of  the  astounding  revelation  that 
Mills  and  Dulcie  cared  for  eactt  other  came  the 
sting  of  their  sympathy.  She  sat  up,  a  shadow 
among  the  shadows. 

"  I  mustn't  stay,  Mills,"  Dulcie  was  declaring. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  feel  like  a— thief " 

"  Nonsense,  we  are  only  taking  our  own,  Dulcie. 
We  should  have  taken  it  years  ago.  Loving  you  I 
should  never  have  married  Mary." 

"  I  had  a  conscience  then,  Mills,  and  you  had 
promised." 

"  But  now  you  see  it  differently,  Dulcie?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

Mills  was  on  his  knees  beside  Dulcie's  chair,  kiss- 
ing her  hands.  The  fire  lighted  them.  It  was  like 
a  play,  with  Mary  a  forlorn  spectator  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  pit. 

"  Let  me  go  now,  Mills." 
159 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  Wait  till  Mary  comes — we'll  tell  her." 

"  Xo,  oh,  poor  Mary ! " 

Poor  Mary  indeed ! 

"  Anyhow  you've  got  to  stay,  Dulcie,  and  sing  for 
me,  and  when  Mary  comes  back  she'll  get  us  some 
supper  and  I'll  read  you  my  new  verses." 

Among  the  shadows  Mary  had  a  moment  of 
tragic  mirth.  Then  she  set  her  feet  on  the  floor 
and  spoke : 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mills,  but  I  couldn't  cook  supper  to- 
night if  I  died  for  it " 

From  their  bright  circle  of  light  they  peered  at 
her. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  dear ! "  Dulcie  said. 

"  I'm  not  poor,"  Mary  told  her,  "  but  I'm  tired, 
dead  tired,  and  my  head  aches  dreadfully,  and  if 
you  want  Mills  you  can  have  him." 

"  Have  him?  "  Dulcie  whispered. 

"  Yes.     I  don't  want  him." 

Mills  exploded. 

"What?" 

"I  don't  want  you,  Mills.  I'm  tired  of  being  a 
prop;  I'm  tired  of  planning  your  meals,  I'm  tired 
of  deciding  whether  you  shall  have  mushrooms 
with  your  steak  or — onions.  You  can  have  him, 
Dulcie.  I  know  you  think  I've  lost  my  mind." 
She  came  forward  within  the  radius  of  the  light. 
"  But  I  haven't.  As  long  as  I  thought  Mills  cared 

160 


RETURNED  GOODS 

I  could  stick  it  out.  But  I  have  learned  to-night 
that  he  loved  you  before  he  married  me.  You  gave 
him  to  me,  Dulcie,  and  now  you  want  him  back." 

Indian  giver!  Like  a  flash  Dulcie's  mind  went 
to  the  little  Mary  of  the  pigtails  and  pointing  fore- 
finger. 

"  You  want  him  and  you  can  have  him.  Perhaps 
if  you  had  taken  him  years  ago  he  might  have  been 
different.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  even  now  he 
can  live  up  to  all  the  lovely,  lovely  things  that  you 
and  he  are  always  talking  about.  But  I've  had  to 
talk  to  Mills  about  what  he  likes  to  eat  and  what 
we  have  to  pay  for  things ;  I've  had  to  push  him  and 
prod  him  and  praise  him,  and  it  has  been  hard 
work.  If  you  want  him  you  can  have  him,  Dulcie." 

Mills  had  a  stunned  look. 

"  Don't  you  love  me,  Mary?  " 

"  I  think  I've  proved  it,"  she  said  quietly ;  "  but 
I  couldn't  possibly  go  on  loving  you  now.  You 
have  Dulcie  to  love  you,  and  one  woman  is  enough 
for  any  man.  I  don't  know  what  you  are  planning 
to  do,  but  you  needn't  run  away  or  do  anything 
spectacular.  I'll  make  it  as  easy  for  you  as  pos- 
sible. And  now  if  you  don't  mind  111  go  up  and 
take  a  headache  powder;  my  head  is  splitting." 

Left  alone,  they  tried  to  regain  their  air  of  high 
romance. 

"  Poor  Mary !  " 

161 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

But  the  words  rang  hollow.  One  couldn't  pos- 
sibly call  a  woman  poor  who  had  given  away  so 
much  with  a  single  gesture. 

They  tried  to  talk  it  over  but  found  nothing  to 
say.  At  last  Mills  took  Dulcie  home.  She  asked 
him  in  and  he  went.  Aunt  Priscilla  was  out,  and 
tea  was  served  for  the  two  of  them  from  a  lacquered 
tea  cart — Orange  Pekoe  and  Japanese  wafers.  It 
was  delicious  but  unsubstantial.  Dulcie  with  her 
coat  off  was  like  a  wood  sprite  in  leaf  green.  Her 
hair  was  gold,  her  eyes  wet  violets;  but  Mills 
missed  something.  He  had  a  feeling  that  he 
wanted  to  get  home  and  talk  things  over  with 
Mary. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  it  was  then  that  Dulcie  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Mills,  I  can't." 

"  Can't  what?  " 

"  Let  you  leave  Mary." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  right." 

"It  would  be  as  right  as  it  has  ever  been, 
Dulcie." 

"  I  know  how  it  must  look  to  you,  but — but  I 
knew  all  the  time  that  wrong  is  wrong.  I  thought 
I  was  a  different  Dulcie  from  the  girl  of  long  ago, 
but  I'm  not.  I  still  have  a  conscience ;  I  can't  take 
you  away  from  Mary." 

162 


RETURNED  GOODS 

"  You're  not  taking  me  away.  You  heard  what 
she  said — she  doesn't  want  me." 

And  Dulcie  didn't  want  him !  He  saw  it  in  that 
moment!  The  things  that  Mary  had  said  had 
scared  her.  She  didn't  want  to  prod  and  push  and 
praise.  She  didn't  want  to  decide  what  he  should 
have  for  dinner.  She  didn't  want  to  weigh  the 
merits  of  beefsteak  and  mushrooms  or  beefsteak 
and  onions — onions ! 

He  felt  suddenly  old,  fat,  bald-headed!  The 
glow  had  faded  from  everything.  He  did  not  pro- 
test or  attempt  to  persuade  her.  He  took  his  hat, 
kissed  her  hand  and  got  away. 

Aunt  Priscilla  coming  in  found  Dulcie  in  tears 
by  the  fire. 

"  I've  given  him  up,  Aunt  Cilia." 

"  Why?  " 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  be  right." 

She  came  into  Aunt  Priscilla's  bedroom  later  to 
talk  it  over.  She  had  on  the  rosy  house  coat.  She 
spoke  of  going  back  to  Paris. 

"It  will  be  better  for  both  of  us.  After  all, 
Aunt  Cilia,  we  are  what  we  are  fundamentally,  and 
We  Puritans  can't  get  away  from  our  consciences, 
can  we?" 

"  Some  of  us,"  said  Aunt  Priscilla,  "can't." 

The  old  woman  lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night, 
thinking  it  out.  She  was  glad  that  Dulcie  had 

163 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

stopped  the  thing  in  time.  But  she  had  a  feeling 
that  the  solution  of  the  situation  could  not  be  laid 
to  an  awakened  conscience.  She  hoped  that  some 
day  Dulcie  would  tell  her  the  truth. 

It  was  still  raining  when  Mills  reached  home. 
The  house  was  dark,  the  fire  had  died  down.  He 
went  up-stairs.  The  boys  were  in  bed.  There  was 
a  light  in  Mary's  room.  He  opened  the  door. 
Mary  was  propped  up  on  her  pillows  reading  a 
book. 

He  stopped,  uncertain,  on  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  "  my  head's  better." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  Mary,"  he  said,  and  his  face  worked.  He 
dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  bed  and  cried  like  a 
child. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  head  and  smoothed  his 
thin  hair. 

"  Poor  Mills ! "  she  said  softly ;  "  poor  old 
Mills ! "  Then  after  a  moment,  brightly :  "  It  will 
do  us  both  good  to  have  some  coffee.  Kun  along, 
Mills,  and  start  the  percolator;  I'll  be  down  in  a 
minute  to  get  the  supper." 


164 


BURNED  TOAST 

I 

PEEEY  CUNNINGHAM  and  I  had  been  friends  for 
years.  I  was  older  than  he,  and  I  had  taught  him 
in  his  senior  year  at  college.  After  that  we  had 
traveled  abroad,  frugally,  as  befitted  our  means. 
The  one  quarrel  I  had  with  fate  was  that  Perry 
was  poor.  Money  would  have  given  him  the  back- 
ground that  belonged  to  Mm — he  was  a  princely 
chap,  with  a  high-held  head.  He  had  Southern 
blood  in  his  veins,  which  accounted  perhaps  for  an 
almost  old-fashioned  charm  of  manner,  as  if  he 
carried  on  a  gentlemanly  tradition. 

We  went  through  the  art  galleries  together. 
There  could  have  been  nothing  better  than  those 
days  with  him — the  Louvre,  the  Uffizi,  the  Pitti 
Palace.  Perry's  search  for  beauty  was  almost 
breathless.  We  swept  from  Filippo  Lippi  to  Bot- 
ticelli and  Bellini,  then  on  to  Ghirlandajo,  Guido 
Keni,  Correggio,  Del  Sarto — the  incomparable 
Leonardo. 

"  If  I  had  lived  then,"  Perry  would  say,  glowing, 
11  in  Florence  or  in  Venice !  " 

And  I,  smiling  at  his  enthusiasm,  had  a  vision  of 
165 


TEE  (MY  COCKADE 

hi™  among  those  golden  painters,  his  own  young 
beauty  enhanced  by  robes  of  clear  color,  his  thirst 
for  loveliness  appeased  by  the  sumptuous  settings 
of  that  age  of  romance. 

Then  when  the  great  moderns  confronted  us — 
Sorolla  and  the  rest — Perry  complained,  "  Why  did 
I  study  law,  Koger,  when  I  might  be  doing  things 
like  this?" 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  I  told  him. 

I  felt  that  he  must  not  be  curbed,  that  his  im- 
passioned interest  might  blossom  and  bloom  into 
genius  if  it  were  given  a  proper  outlet. 

So  it  came  about  that  he  decided  to  paint.  He 
would  stay  in  Paris  a  year  or  two  in  a  studio,  and 
test  his  talent. 

But  his  people  would  not  hear  of  it.  There  had 
been  lawyers  in  his  family  for  generations.  Since 
the  Civil  War  they  had  followed  more  or  less  suc- 
cessful careers.  Perry's  own  father  had  made 
no  money,  but  Perry's  mother  was  obsessed  by  the 
idea  that  the  fortunes  of  the  family  were  bound  up 
in  her  son's  continuance  of  his  father's  practice. 

So  Perry  went  home  and  opened  an  office.  His 
heart  was  not  in.  it,  but  he  made  enough  to  live  on, 
and  at  last  he  made  money  enough  to  marry  a  wife. 
He  would  have  married  her  whether  he  had  enough 
to  live  on  or  not.  She  was  an  artist,  and  she  was 
twenty  when  Perry  met  her.  We  had  been  spend- 

166 


BURNED  TOAST 

ing  a  month  in  Maine,  on  an  island  as  charming  as 
it  was  cheap.  Rosalie  was  there  with  a  great-aunt 
and  uncle.  She  was  painting  the  sea  on  the  day 
that  Perry  first  saw  her,  and  she  wore  a  jade-green 
smock.  Her  hair  was  red,  drawn  back  rather 
tightly  from  her  forehead,  but  breaking  into  waves 
over  her  ears.  With  the  red  of  her  cheeks  and  the 
red  of  her  lips  she  had  something  of  the  look  of 
Lorenzo  Lotto's  lovely  ladies,  except  for  a  certain 
sharp  slenderness,  a  slenderness  which  came,  I  was 
to  learn  later,  from  an  utter  indifference  to  the 
claims  of  appetite.  She  was  one  of  those  who  sell 
bread  to  buy  hyacinths. 

I  speak  of  this  here  because  Rosalie's  almost 
ascetic  indifference  to  material  matters,  in  direct 
contrast  to  Perry's  vivid  enjoyment  of  the  good 
things  of  life,  came  to  have  a  tragic  significance  in 
later  days.  Perry  loved  a  warm  hearth  in  winter, 
a  cool  porch  in  summer.  He  had  the  Southerner's 
epicurean  appreciation  of  the  fine  art  of  feasting. 
The  groaning  board  had  been  his  inheritance  from 
a  rollicking,  rackety  set  of  English  ancestors,  to 
whom  dining  was  a  rather  splendid  ceremony.  On 
his  mother's  table  had  been  fish  and  game  from 
Chesapeake,  fruits  and  vegetables  in  season  and 
out — roast  lamb  when  prices  soared  high  in  the 
spring,  strawberries  as  soon  as  they  came  up  from 
Florida.  There  had  always  been  money  for  these 

167 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

in  tlie  Cunningham  exchequer,  when  there  had  been 
money  for  nothing  else. 

Eosalie,  on  the  other  hand,  ate  an  orange  in  the 
morning,  a  square  of  toast  at  noon,  a  chop  and  per- 
haps a  salad  for  dinner.  One  felt  that  she  might 
have  fared  equally  well  on  dew  and  nectar.  She 
had  absolutely  no  interest  in  what  was  set  before 
her,  and  after  she  married  Perry  this  attitude  of 
mind  remained  unchanged. 

She  was  a  wretched  cook,  and  made  no  effort  to 
acquire  expertness.  She  and  Perry  lived  in  a  small 
but  well-built  bungalow  some  miles  out  from  town, 
and  they  could  not  afford  a  maid.  When  I  dined 
with  them  I  made  up  afterward  for  the  deficiencies 
of  their  menu  by  a  square  meal  at  the  club.  There 
was  no  chance  for  Perry  to  make  up,  and  I  won- 
dered as  the  years  went  on  how  he  stood  it. 

He  seemed  to  stand  it  rather  well,  except  that  in 
time  he  came  to  have  that  same  sharpened  look  of 
delicacy  which  added  a  spiritual  note  to  Rosalie's 
rich  bloom.  He  always  lighted  up  when  he  spoke 
of  his  wife,  and  he  was  always  urging  me  to  come 
and  see  them.  I  must  admit  that  except  for  the 
meals  I  liked  to  go.  Rosalie's  success  at  painting 
had  been  negligible,  but  her  love  of  beauty  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  atmosphere  she  gave  to  her  little 
home;  she  had  achieved  rather  triumphant  results 
in  backgrounds  and  in  furnishing. 

168 


BURNED  TOAST 

I  remember  one  spring  twilight.  I  was  out  for 
the  week-end,  and  we  dined  late.  The  little  house 
was  on  a  hill,  and  with  the  French  windows  wide 
open  we  seemed  to  hang  above  an  abyss  of  purple 
sky,  cut  by  a  thin  crescent.  White  candles  lighted 
the  table,  and  there  were  white  lilacs.  There  was 
a  silver  band  about  Rosalie's  red  hair. 

There  was  not  much  to  eat,  and  Perry  apologized, 
"  Eose  hates  to  fuss  with  food  in  hot  weather." 

Rosalie,  as  mysterious  in  that  light  as  the  young 
moon,  smiled  dreamily. 

"  Why  should  one  think  about  such  things — 
when  there  is  so  much  else  in  the  world?  " 

Perry  removed  the  plates  and  made  the  coffee. 
Rosalie  did  not  drink  coffee.  She  wandered  out 
into  the  garden,  and  came  back  with  three  violets, 
which  she  kissed  and  stuck  in  Perry's  coat. 

The  next  morning  when  I  came  down  Rosalie  was 
cutting  bread  for  toast.  She  was  always  exquisitely 
neat,  and  in  her  white  linen  and  in  her  white-tiled 
kitchen  she  seemed  indubitably  domestic.  I  was 
hungry  and  had  hopes  of  her  efforts. 

"  Peer  is  setting  the  table/'  she  told  me. 

She  always  called  him  "  Peer."  She  had  her  own 
way  of  finding  names  for  people.  I  was  never 
"Roger,"  but  "Jim  Crow."  When  questioned  as 
to  her  reason  for  the  appellation  she  decided 
vaguely  that  it  might  be  some  connection  of  ideas — 

169 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

dances — Sir  Koger  de  Coverley — and  didn't  some- 
body "  dance  Jim  Crow  "? 

"  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  "  she  had  asked,  and  I 
had  replied  that  I  did  not. 

I  did  not  confess  how  much  I  liked  it.  I  had  al- 
ways been  treated  in  a  distinctly  distant  and  digni- 
fied fashion  by  my  family  and  friends,  so  that 
Kosalie's  easy  assumption  of  intimacy  was  delight- 
ful. 

Well,  I  went  out  on  the  porch  and  left  Eosalie  to 
her  culinary  devices.  I  found  the  morning  paper, 
and  fifteen  minutes  later  there  came  up  across  the 
lawn  a  radiant  figure, 

Kosalie,  hearing  the  garden  call,  had  chucked  re- 
sponsibility— and  her  arms  were  full  of  daffodils! 

We  had  burned  toast  for  breakfast !  Eosalie  had 
forgotten  it  and  Perry  had  not  rescued  it  until  it 
was  well  charred.  There  was  no  bread  to  make 
more,  so  we  had  to  eat  it. 

For  the  rest  we  had  coffee  and  fruit.  It  was  an 
expensive  season  for  eggs,  and  Rosalie  had  her  eye 
on  a  bit  of  old  brocade  which  was  to  light  a  corner 
of  her  studio.  She  breakfasted  contentedly  on 
grapefruit,  but  Perry  was  rather  silent,  and  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  a  shadow  on  his  countenance.  I 
wondered  if  for  the  moment  his  mind  had  wan- 
dered to  the  past,  and  to  his  mother's  table,  with 
Sunday  waffles,  omelet,  broiled  bacon.  Yet — there 

170 


BURNED  TOAST 

had  been  no  bits  of  gay  brocade  to  light  the  mid- 
Victorian  dullness  of  his  mother's  dining-room,  no 
daffodils  on  a  radiant  morning,  no  white  lilacs  on  a 
purple  twilight,  no  slender  goddess,  mysterious  as 
the  moon. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  following  winter  that 
I  began  to  realize  that  Perry  was  not  well.  He  had 
come  home  on  a  snowy  night,  tired  and  chilled  to 
the  bone.  He  was  late  and  Eosalie  had  kept  dinner 
waiting  for  him.  It  was  a  rather  sorry  affair  when 
it  was  served.  Perry  pushed  his  chair  back  and 
did  not  eat.  I  had  as  little  appetite  for  it  as  he, 
but  I  did  my  best.  I  had  arrived  on  an  earlier 
train,  with  some  old  prints  that  I  wanted  to  show 
him.  Rosalie  and  I  looked  at  them  after  dinner, 
but  Perry  crouched  over  the  fire  and  coughed  at 
intervals. 

At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

"  He  needs  some  hot  milk,  a  foot  bath,  and  to  be 
tucked  up  in  bed." 

Rosalie  stared  at  me  above  the  prints.    "  Perry?  " 

"  Yes.    He  isn't  well." 

"  Don't  croak,  Jim  Crow." 

But  I  knew  what  I  was  talking  about.  "  I  am 
going  to  get  him  to  bed.  You  can  have  the  milk 
ready  when  I  come  down." 

It  developed  that  there  was  no  milk.  I  walked 
half  a  mile  to  a  road  house  and  brought  back 

171 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

oysters  and  a  bottle  of  cream.  I  cooked  them  my- 
self in  the  white-tiled  kitchen,  and  served  them 
piping  hot  in  a  bowl  with  crackers. 

Perry,  propped  up  in  bed,  ate  like  a  starved  bird. 

"  I've  never  tasted  anything  better,"  he  said ;  and, 
warmed  and  fed,  he  slept  after  a  bit  as  soundly  as  a 
satisfied  baby. 

It  was  while  he  was  eating  the  oysters  that 
Rosalie  came  to  the  door  and  looked  at  him.  He 
was  not  an  aesthetic  object — I  must  admit  that  no 
sick  man  is — and  I  saw  distaste  in  her  glance,  as  if 
some  dainty  instinct  in  her  shrank  from  the 
spectacle. 

When  I  went  down  I  found  her  sitting  in  front  of 
the  fire,  wrapped  in  a  Chinese  robe  of  black  and 
gold.  You  can  imagine  the  effect  of  that  with  the 
red  of  her  hair  and  the  red  of  her  cheeks  and  lips. 
Her  feet,  in  black  satin  slippers,  were  on  a  jade- 
green  cushion,  and  back  of  her  head  was  the  strip 
of  brocade  that  she  had  bought  with  her  house- 
keeping money.  It  was  a  gorgeous  bit,  repeating 
the  color  of  the  cushion,  and  with  a  touch  of  blue 
which  matched  her  eyes. 

She  wanted  me  to  show  her  the  rest  of  the  prints. 
I  tried  to  talk  to  her  of  Perry's  health,  but  she 
wouldn't. 

"  Don't  croak,  Jim  Crow,"  she  said  again. 

As  I  look  back  at  the  two  of  us  by  the  fire  that 
172 


BURNED  TOAST 

night  I  feel  as  one  might  who  had  been  accessory  to 
a  crime.  Rosalie's  charm  was  undoubted.  Her 
quickness  of  mind,  her  gayety  of  spirit,  her  passion 
for  all  that  was  lovely  in  art  and  Nature — made 
her  indescribably  interesting.  I  stayed  late.  And 
not  once,  after  my  first  attempt,  did  we  speak  of 
Perry. 

II 

It  was  in  March  that  I  made  Perry  see  a  doctor. 
"Nothing  organic,"  was  Perry's  report.  Beyond 
that  he  was  silent.  So  I  went  to  the  doctor  myself. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  him?  " 

"  He  is  not  getting  the  proper  nourishment,"  the 
doctor  told  me.  "  He  must  have  plenty  of  milk  and 
eggs,  and  good  red  meat." 

It  sounded  easy  enough,  but  it  wasn't.  Rosalie 
couldn't  grasp  the  fact  that  diet  in  Perry's  case  was 
important.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  a  queer  sort  of 
obstinacy  in  her. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Peer !  "  And  she  laughed  lightly. 
"  Do  they  want  to  make  a  stuffed  pig  of  you?  " 

Well,  you  simply  couldn't  get  it  into  her  head 
that  Perry  needed  the  bread  that  she  sold  for  hya- 
cinths. She  cooked  steaks  and  chops  for  him,  and 
served  them  with  an  air  of  protest  that  took  away 
his  appetite. 

Of  course  there  remained  the  eggs  and  milk,  but 
173 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

he  didn't  like  them.  What  Perry  really  needed  was 
three  good  meals  a  day  according  to  the  tradition  of 
his  mother's  home. 

But  he  couldn't  have  them.  His  mother  was 
dead,  and  the  home  broken  up.  The  little  bunga- 
low, with  its  old  brocades,  its  Venetian  glass,  its 
Florentine  carvings,  its  sun-dial  and  its  garden,  was 
the  best  that  life  could  offer  him.  And  I  must  con- 
fess that  he  seemed  to  think  it  very  good.  He 
adored  Rosalie.  When  in  moments  of  rebellion 
against  her  seeming  indifference  I  hinted  that  she 
lacked  housewifely  qualities  he  smiled  and  shifted 
the  subject  abruptly. 

Once  he  said,  "  She  feeds — my  soul." 

Of  course  she  loved  him.  But  love  to  her  meant 
what  it  had  meant  in  those  first  days  on  the  Maine 
coast  when  she  had  seen  him,  slender  and  strong, 
his  brown  hair  blowing  back  from  his  sun-tanned 
skin;  it  meant  those  first  days  in  their  new  home 
when,  handsome  and  debonair  in  the  velvet  coat 
which  she  had  made  him  wear,  he  had  added  a  high 
light  to  the  picture  she  had  made  of  her  home. 

This  new  Perry,  pale  and  coughing — shivering  in 
the  warmth  of  the  fire — did  not  fit  into  the  picture. 
Her  dreams  of  the  future  had  not  included  a  tired 
man  who  worked  for  his  living,  and  who  was  dying 
for  lack  of  intelligent  care. 

To  put  it  into  cold  words  makes  it  sound  ghoul- 
174 


BURNED  TOAST 

ish.  But  of  course  Rosalie  was  not  really  that. 
She  was  merely  absorbed  in  her  own  exalted  the- 
ories and  she  was  not  maternal.  I  think  when  I 
compared  her,  unthinking,  to  the  young  moon,  that 
I  was  subconsciously  aware  of  her  likeness  to  the 
"  orbed  maiden  "  whose  white  fire  warms  no  one. 

She  tried  to  do  her  best,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that 
Perry  never  knew  the  truth — that  he  might  have 
been  saved  if  she  could  have  left  her  heights  for  a 
moment  and  had  become  womanly  and  wifely.  If 
she  had  mothered  him  a  bit — poured  out  her  tender- 
ness upon  him — oh,  my  poor  Perry.  He  loved  her 
too  much  to  ask  it,  but  I  knew  what  it  would  have 
meant  to  him. 

All  through  his  last  illness  Rosalie  clung  to  me. 
I  think  it  grew  to  be  a  horror  to  her  to  see  him, 
gaunt  and  exhausted,  in  the  west  room.  He  had 
a  good  nurse,  toward  the  last,  and  good  food.  I 
had  had  a  small  fortune  left  to  me,  too  late,  by  a 
distant  relative.  I  paid  for  the  cook  and  the  nurse, 
and  I  sent  flowers  to  Rosalie  that  she  might  take 
them  to  Perry  and  let  his  hungry  eyes  feed  upon 
her. 

It  was  in  the  winter  that  he  died,  and  after  all 
was  over  Rosalie  and  I  went  out  and  stood  together 
on  the  little  porch.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground 
and  the  bright  stars  seemed  caught  in  the  branches 
of  the  pines. 

175 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Eosalie  shook  and  sobbed. 

"  I  hate — death,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Jim  Crow,  why 
did  God  let  my  poor  Peer  die?  "  She  was  com- 
pletely unstrung.  "  Deatk  is  so — ugly." 

I  said,  "  It  is  not  ugly.  Peer  will  live  again — 
like  the  daffodils  in  the  spring." 

"  Do  you  believe  that,  Jim  Crow?  " 

I  did  believe  it,  and  I  told  her  so — that  even  now 
her  Peer  was  strong  and  well ;  and  I  think  it  com- 
forted her.  It  gave  her  lover  back  to  her,  as  it 
were,  in  the  glory  of  his  youth. 

She  did  not  wear  mourning,  or,  rather,  she  wore 
mourning  which  was  like  that  worn  by  no  other 
woman.  Her  robes  were  of  purple.  She  kept 
Perry's  picture  on  the  table,  and  out  of  the  frame 
his  young  eyes  laughed  at  us,  so  that  gradually  the 
vision  of  that  ravaged  figure  in  the  west  room 
faded. 

I  went  to  see  her  once  a  week.  It  seemed  the 
only  thing  to  do.  She  was  utterly  alone,  with  no 
family  but  the  great-aunt  and  uncle  who  had  been 
with  her  when  she  met  Perry.  She  was  a  child  in 
business  matters,  and  Perry  had  left  it  to  me  to  ad- 
minister the  affairs  of  his  little  estate.  Eosalie  had 
her  small  bungalow,  Perry's  insurance,  and  she 
turned  her  knowledge  of  painting  to  practical  ac- 
count. She  made  rather  special  things  in  lamp- 
shades and  screens,  and  was  well  paid  for  them. 

176 


BURNED  TOAST 

I  went,  as  I  have  said,  once  a  week.  A  woman 
friend  shared  part  of  her  house,  but  was  apt  to  be 
out,  and  so  I  saw  Eosalie  usually  alone.  I  lived 
now  at  the  club  and  kept  a  car.  Eosalie  often 
dined  with  me,  but  I  rarely  ate  at  the  bungalow. 
Now  and  then  in  the  afternoon  she  made  me  a  cup 
of  tea,  rather  more,  I  am  sure,  for  the  picturesque 
service  with  her  treasured  Sheffield  than  for  any 
desire  to  contribute  to  my  own  cheer  or  com- 
fort. 

And  so,  gradually,  I  grew  into  her  life  and  she 
grew  into  mine.  I  was  forty-five,  she  twenty-five. 
In  the  back  of  my  mind  was  always  a  sense  of  the 
enormity  of  her  offense  against  Perry.  In  my  hot- 
test moments  I  said  to  myself  that  she  had  sacri- 
ficed his  life  to  her  selfishness ;  she  might  have  been 
a  Borgia  or  a  Medici. 

Yet  when  I  was  with  her  my  resentment  faded; 
one  could  as  little  hold  rancor  against  a  child. 

Thus  the  months  passed,  and  it  was  in  the  au- 
tumn, I  remember,  that  a  conversation  occurred 
which  opened  new  vistas.  She  had  been  showing 
me  a  parchment  lamp-shade  which  she  had  painted. 
There  was  a  peacock  with  a  spreading  tail,  and  as 
she  held  the  shade  over  the  lamp  the  light  shone 
through  and  turned  every  feathered  eye  into  a 
glittering  jewel.  Kosalie  wore  one  of  her  purple 
robes,  and  I  can  see  her  now  as  I  shut  my  eyes,  as 

177 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

glowing  and  gorgeous  as  some  of  those  unrivaled 
masterpieces  in  the  Pitti  Palace. 

"  Jim  Crow,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  do  a  parrot 
next — all  red  and  blue,  with  white  rings  round  his 
eyes." 

"  You  will  never  do  anything  better  than  that 
peacock." 

"  Shan't  I?  "  She  left  the  shade  over  the  lamp 
and  sat  down.  "Do  you  think  I  shall  paint  pea- 
cocks and  parrots  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  Jim 
Crow?  " 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Travel."  She  was  eager.  "  Do  you  know,  I 
have  never  been  to  Europe?  Perry  used  to  tell 
me  about  it — Botticelli  and  Raphael — and  Michael- 
angelo " 

"  We  had  a  great  time,"  I  said,  remembering  it 
all — that  breathless  search  for  beauty. 

"He  promised  that  some  day  he  and  I  would 
go — together." 

"  Poor  Perry !  " 

She  rose  restlessly. 

"  Oh,  take  me  out  somewhere,  Jim  Crow !  I  feel 
as  if  this  little  house  would  stifle  me." 

We  motored  to  the  country  club.  She  wore  the 
color  which  she  now  affected,  a  close  little  hat  and 
a  straight  frock.  People  stared  at  her.  I  think 
she  was  aware  of  their  admiration  and  liked  it. 

178 


BURNED  TOAST 

She  smiled  at  me  as  she  sat  down  at  the 
table.  "I  always  love  to  come  with  you,  Jim 
Crow." 

"Why?" 

"  You  do  things  so  well,  and  you're  such  a  dar- 
ling." 

I  do  not  believe  that  it  was  intended  as  flattery. 
I  am  sure  that  she  meant  it.  She  was  happy  be- 
cause of  the  lights  and  the  lovely  old  room  with  its 
cavernous  fireplace  and  its  English  chintzes;  and 
out  of  her  happiness  she  spoke. 

She  could  not,  of  course,  know  the  effect  of  her 
words  on  me.  No  one  had  ever  called  me  a  darling 
or  had  thought  that  I  did  things  well. 

She  used,  too,  to  tell  me  things  about  my  looks. 
"  You'd  be  like  one  of  those  distinguished  gentle- 
men of  Vandyke's  if  you'd  wear  a  ruff  and  leave  off 
your  eye-glasses." 

I  wonder  if  you  know  how  it  seemed  to  have  a 
child  like  that  saying  such  things.  For  she  was 
more  than  a  child,  she  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
everything  surrounding  her  was  beautiful.  And 
there  had  been  a  great  many  gray  years  before  I 
met  Perry  and  before  the  money  came  which  made 
pleasant  living  possible. 

"  I  like  you  because  you  are  strong,"  was  another 
of  her  tributes. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  strong?  " 
179 


THE  aAY  COCKADE 

"Well,  you  look  it.  And  not  many  men  conld 
have  carried  me  so  easily  up-stairs." 

She  had  sprained  her  ankle  in  getting  out  of  my 
car  on  the  night  that  we  had  dined  at  the  country 
club.  She  had  worn  high-heeled  slippers  and  had 
stepped  on  a  pebble. 

It  was  on  that  night  that  I  first  faced  the  fact 
that  I  cared  for  her.  In  my  arms  she  had  clung 
to  me  like  a  child,  her  hair  had  swept  my  cheek, 
there  had  been  the  fragrance  of  violets. 

I  did  not  want  to  care  for  her.  I  remembered 
Periy — the  burned  toast  which  had  seemed  to  mark 
the  beginning  of  their  tragedy — those  last  dreadful 
days.  I  knew  that  Perry's  fate  would  not  be  mine ; 
there  would  be  no  need  to  sell  bread  to  buy  hya- 
cinths. There  was  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
money  to  let  her  live  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  things 
she  craved ;  money  enough  to — travel. 

The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  I  was  held  by 
the  thought  of  what  such  a  trip  would  mean  to  me. 
It  would  be  like  that  pilgrimage  with  young  Perry. 
There  would  be  the  same  impassioned  interest — 
there  would  be  more  than  that — there  would  be 
youth  and  loveliness — all  mine. 

I  felt  that  I  was  mad  to  think  of  it.  Yet  she 
made  me  think  of  it.  It  was  what  she  wanted. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  unwomanly,  but  she  was 

180 


BURNED  TOAST 

very  modern  in  her  frank  expression  of  the  pleasure 
she  felt  in  my  companionship. 

"  Oh,  what  would  I  do  without  you,  Jim  Crow?  " 
was  the  way  she  put  it. 

I  grew  young  in  my  months  of  association  with 
her.  I  had  danced  a  little  in  my  college  days,  but 
I  had  given  it  up.  She  taught  me  the  new  steps — 
and  we  would  set  the  phonograph  going  and  take 
up  the  rugs. 

When  I  grew  expert  we  danced  together  at  the 
country  club  and  at  some  of  the  smart  places  down- 
town. It  was  all  very  delightful.  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  should  marry  her. 

I  planned  to  ask  her  on  Christmas  Eve.  I  had 
a  present  for  her,  an  emerald  set  in  antique  silver 
with  seed  pearls.  It  was  hung  on  a  black  ribbon, 
and  I  could  fancy  it  shining  against  the  back- 
ground of  her  velvet  smock.  I  carried  flowers, 
too,  and  a  book.  I  was  keen  with  anticipation. 
The  years  seemed  to  drop  from  me.  I  was  a  boy 
of  twenty  going  to  meet  the  lady  of  my  first 
romance. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  bungalow  I  found  that 
Rosalie  had  with  her  the  old  great-aunt  and  uncle 
who  had  been  with  her  when  we  first  met  in  Maine. 
They  had  come  on  for  Christmas  unexpectedly, 
anticipating  an  eager  welcome,  happy  in  their  sense 
of  surprise. 

181 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

Rosalie,  when  we  had  a  moment  alone,  expressed 
her  dismay. 

"  They  are  going  to  stay  until  to-morrow  night, 
Jim  Crow.  And  I  haven't  planned  any  Christmas 
dinner." 

"  We'll  take  them  to  the  country  club." 

"  How  heavenly  of  you  to  think  of  it !  " 

I  gave  her  the  flowers  and  the  book.  But  I  kept 
the  jewel  for  the  high  moment  when  I  should  ask 
her  for  a  greater  gift  in  exchange. 

But  the  high  moment  did  not  come  that  night. 
The  old  uncle  and  aunt  sat  up  with  us.  They  had 
much  to  talk  about.  They  were  a  comfortable 
pair — silver-haired  and  happy  in  each  other — going 
toward  the  end  of  the  journey  hand  in  hand. 

The  old  man  went  to  the  door  with  me  when  I 
left,  and  we  stood  for  a  moment  under  the  stars. 

"Mother  and  I  miss  hanging  up  the  stockings 
for  the  kiddies,"  he  said. 

"  Were  there  many  kiddies?  " 

"Three.  Two  dead  -and  one  married  and  out 
West.  Kosalie  seemed  the  nearest  that  we  had, 
and  that's  why  we  came.  I  thought  mother  might 
be  lonely  in  our  big  old  house." 

The  next  day  at  the  country  club  the  old  gentle- 
man was  genial  but  slightly  garrulous.  The  old 
lady  talked  about  her  children  and  her  Christmas 
memories.  I  saw  that  Eosalie  was  frankly  bored. 

182 


BURNED  TOAST 

As  for  myself,  I  was  impatient  for  my  high  mo- 
ment. 

But  I  think  I  gave  the  old  folks  a  good  time  and 
that  they  missed  nothing  in  my  manner.  And,  in- 
deed, I  think  that  they  missed  nothing  in  Rosalie's. 
They  had  the  gentle  complacency  of  the  aged  who 
bask  in  their  own  content. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  dinner  that  I  caught  a 
look  in  Rosalie's  eyes  which  almost  made  my  heart 
stop  beating.  I  had  not  seen  it  since  Perry's  death. 
I  had  seen  it  first  when  she  had  stood  in  the  door  of 
his  room  on  the  night  that  I  tucked  him  up  in  bed 
and  gave  him  the  hot  oysters.  It  was  that  look  of 
distaste — that  delicate  shrinking  from  an  unpleas- 
ant spectacle. 

Following  her  gaze  I  saw  that  the  old  gentleman 
had  sunk  in  his  chair  and  was  gently  nodding. 
His  wife  leaned  toward  me. 

"  Milton  always  takes  a  cat  nap  after  meals," 
she  said,  smiling.  And  I  smiled  back,  she  was  so 
rosy  and  round  and  altogether  comfortable. 

Eosalie  and  I  went  with  them  to  the  train,  and 
it  was  as  we  drove  back  that  I  spoke  of  them. 

"  They  are  rather  great  dears,  aren't  they?  " 

Rosalie  was  vehement.    "  I  hate  old  people !  " 

A  chill  struck  to  my  bones.  "  You  hate  them? 
Why?" 

"  They're — ugly,  Jim  Crow.  Did  you  see  how. 
183 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

they  had  shrunk  since  I  last  saw  them — and  the 
veins  in  their  hands — and  the  skull  showing 
through  his  forehead?  " 

She  was  twenty-five,  and  I  was  almost  twice  her 
age.  When  I  was  old  she  would  still  be  young — 
young  enough  to  see  my  shrunken  body  and  the 
skull  showing  through ! 

The  look  that  had  been  in  her  eyes  for  Perry 
would  some  day  be  in  her  eyes  for  me.  And  I 
knew  that  if  I  ever  saw  it  it  would  strike  me  dead. 
It  might  not  kill  me  physically,  but  it  would  wither 
like  a  flame  all  joy  and  hope  forever. 

When  we  reached  the  bungalow  I  built  up  a  fire, 
and  Rosalie,  leaving  me  for  a  little,  came  back  in 
something  sheer  and  lovely  in  green.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  Perry's  death  that  she  had  dis- 
carded her  purple  robes.  She  sank  into  a  big  chair 
opposite  me  and  put  her  silver-slippered  feet  on  the 
green  cushion. 

"  Isn't  it  heavenly  to  be  alone,  Jim  Crow?  " 

It  was  the  high  moment  which  I  had  planned, 
but  I  could  not  grasp  it.  Between  me  and  happi- 
ness stood  the  shadow  of  that  other  Rosalie,  shrink- 
ing from  me  when  I  was  old  as  she  had  shrunk 
from  Perry. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  and  I  did  not  look  at  her, 
"  I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  you." 

Her  chin  was  in  her  hand.     "  I  know." 
184 


BURNED  TOAST 

But  she  didn't  know. 

"  I've  been  thinking,  Rosalie ;  and  I  want  to  give 
you  something  for  Christmas  which  will  make  you 
happy  throughout  the  year." 

"  You  are  such  a  darling,  Jim  Crow." 

"And  I  have  thought  of  this — a  trip  to  Europe. 
You'll  let  me  do  it,  won't  you?  There'll  be  the  art 
galleries,  and  you  can  stay  as  long  as  you  like." 

I  could  see  that  she  was  puzzled.  "  Do  you 
mean  that  I  am  to  go — alone?  "  she  asked  slowly. 

"  There  may  be  some  one  going.     I'll  find  out." 

There  was  dead  silence. 

"  You  will  let  me  do  it?  "  I  asked  finally. 

She  came  over  to  my  chair  and  stood  looking 
down  at  me. 

"  Why  are  you  sending  me  alone,  Jim  Crow?  " 

I  think,  then,  that  she  saw  the  anguish  in  my 
eyes.  She  sank  on  her  knees  beside  my  chair. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  alone,  Jim  Crow.  I  want 
to  stay — with — you." 

Well,  the  jewel  is  on  her  breast  and  a  ring  to 
match  is  on  her  finger.  And  when  the  spring  comes 
we  are  to  sail  for  Italy,  for  France. 

Perhaps  we  shall  never  come  back.  And  I  am 
going  to  give  Kosalie  all  the  loveliness  that  life  can 
hold  for  her.  Now  and  then  she  whispers  that  she 
never  knew  love  until  I  taught  it  to  her.  That 

185 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

what  she  felt  for  Perry  was  but  the  echo  of  his  own 
need  of  her. 

"  But  I'd  tramp  the  muddy  roads  with  you,  Jim 
Crow." 

I  wonder  if  she  really  means  it.  I  wish  with  all 
my  heart  that  I  might  know  it  true.  I  have  never 
told  her  of  my  fears  and  I  believe  that  I  can  make 
her  happy.  I  shall  try  not  to  look  too  far  beyond 
the  days  we  shall  have  in  the  Louvre  and  the  Uffizi 
and  the  Pitti  Palace.  We  shall  search  for  beauty, 
and  perhaps  I  can  teach  her  to  find  it,  before  it  is 
too  late,  in  the  things  that  count. 


186 


PETRONELLA 

"  IF  you  loved  a  man,  and  knew  that  he  loved  you, 
and  he  wouldn't  ask  you  to  marry  him,  what  would 
you  do?  " 

The  Admiral  surveyed  his  grand-niece  thought- 
fully. "  What  do  you  expect  to  do,  my  dear?  " 

Petronella  stopped  on  the  snowy  top  step  and 
looked  down  at  him.  "  Who  said  I  had  anything 
to  do  with  it?  "  she  demanded. 

The  Admiral's  old  eyes  twinkled.  "  Let  me  come 
in,  and  tell  me  about  it." 

Petronella  smiled  at  him  over  her  big  muff.  "  If 
you'll  promise  not  to  stay  after  five,  I'll  give  you 
a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Who's  coming  at  five?  " 

The  color  flamed  into  Petronella's  cheeks.  In 
her  white  coat  and  white  furs,  with  her  wind-blown 
brown  hair,  her  beauty  satisfied  even  the  Admiral's 
critical  survey,  and  he  hastened  to  follow  his  ques- 
tion by  the  assertion,  "  Of  course  I'll  come  in." 

Petronella,  with  her  coat  off,  showed  a  slender- 
ness  which  was  enhanced  by  the  straight  lines  of 
her  white  wool  gown,  with  the  long  sleeves  fur- 
edged,  and  with  fur  at  the  top  of  the  high,  trans- 
parent collar.  She  wore  her  hair  curled  over  her 

187 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

ears  and  low  on  her  forehead,  which  made  of  her 
face  a  small  and  delicate  oval.  In  the  big  hall, 
with  a  roaring  fire  in  the  wide  fireplace,  she  dis- 
pensed comforting  hospitality  to  the  adoring  Ad- 
miral. And  when  she  had  given  him  his  tea  she 
sat  on  a  stool  at  his  feet.  "  Oh,  wise  great-uncle," 
she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  the  Man ! " 

"  Have  I  ever  seen  him?  " 

"No.  I  met  him  in  London  last  year,  and — 
well,  you  know  what  a  trip  home  on  shipboard 
means,  with  all  the  women  shut  up  in  their  cabins, 
and  with  moonlight  nights,  and  nobody  on 
deck » 

"  So  it  was  an  affair  of  moonlight  and  propin- 
quity? " 

After  a  pause :  "  No,  it  was  an  affair  of  the  only 
man  in  the  world  for  me." 

"My  dear  child !» 

Out  of  a  long  silence  she  went  on :  "  He  thought 
I  was  poor.  You  know  how  quietly  I  traveled  with 
Miss  Danvers.  And  he  didn't  associate  Nell  Hew- 
lett with  Petronella  Hewlett  of  New  York  and 
Great  Rock.  And  so — well,  you  know,  uncle,  he 
let  himself  go,  and  I  let  myself  go,  and  then  — 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "When  we  landed, 
things  stopped.  He  had  found  out  who  I  was,  and 
he  wrote  me  a  little  note,  and  said  he  would  never 
forget  our  friendship — and  that's — all." 

188 


PETRONELLA 

She  finished  drearily,  and  the  bluff  old  Admiral 
cleared  his  throat.  There  was  something  wrong 
with  the  scheme  of  things  when  his  Petronella 
couldn't  have  the  moon  if  she  wanted  it ! 

"And  what  can  I  do — what  can  any  woman  do?  " 
Petronella  demanded,  turning  on  him.  "  I  can't 
go  to  him  and  say,  *  Please  marry  me.'  I  can't 
even  think  it " ;  her  cheeks  burned.  "And  he'd  die 
before  he'd  say  another  word,  and  I  suppose  that 
now  we'll  go  on  growing  old,  and  I'll  get  thinner 
and  thinner,  and  he'll  get  fatter  and  fatter,  and  I'll 
be  an  old  maid,  and  he'll  marry  some  woman  who's 
poor  enough  to  satisfy  his  pride,  and — well,  that 
will  be  the  end  of  it,  uncle." 

"  The  end  of  it?  "  said  the  gentleman  who  had 
once  commanded  a  squadron.  "  Well,  I  guess  not, 
Petronella,  if  you  want  him.  Oh,  the  man's  a 
fool ! " 

"  He's  not  a  fool,  uncle."  The  sparks  in  Petro- 
nella's  eyes  matched  the  sparks  in  the  Admiral's. 

"  Well,  if  he's  worthy  of  you " 

Petronella  laid  her  cheek  against  his  hand. 
"  The  question  is  not,"  she  said,  faintly,  "  of  his 
worthiness,  but  of  mine,  dear  uncle." 

Dumbly  the  Admiral  gazed  down  at  that  droop- 
ing head.  Could  this  be  Petronella — confident,  im- 
perious, the  daughter  of  a  confident  and  imperious 
race? 

189 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

He  took  refuge  in  the  question,  "  But  who  is  com- 
ing at  five?  " 

"He  is  coming.  He  is  passing  through  Boston 
on  his  way  to  visit  his  mother  in  Maine.  I  asked 
him  to  come.  I  told  him  I  was  down  here  by  the 
sea,  and  intended  to  spend  Christmas  at  Great 
Rock  because  you  were  here,  and  because  this  was 
the  house  I  lived  in  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and 
that  I  wanted  him  to  see  it;  and — I  told  him  the 
truth,  uncle." 

"  The  truth?  " 

"  That  I  missed  him.  That  was  all  I  dared  say, 
and  I  wish  you  had  read  his  note  of  assent.  Such 
a  stiff  little  thing.  It  threw  me  back  upon  myself, 
and  I  wished  that  I  hadn't  written  him — I  wished 
that  he  wouldn't  come.  Oh,  uncle,  if  I  were  a 
man,  I'd  give  a  woman  the  right  to  choose.  That's 
the  reason  there  are  so  many  unhappy  marriages. 
Nine  wrong  men  ask  a  woman,  and  the  tenth  right 
one  won't.  And  finally  she  gets  tired  of  waiting 
for  the  tenth  right  one,  and  marries  one  of  the  nine 
wrong  ones." 

"There  are  women  to-day,"  said  the  Admiral, 
"who  are  preaching  a  woman's  right  to  pro- 
pose." 

Petronella  gazed  at  him,  thoughtfully.  "  I  could 
preach  a  doctrine  like  that — but  I  couldn't  prac- 
tise it.  It's  easy  enough  to  say  to  some  other 

190 


PETRONELLA 

woman,  'Ask  him,'  but  it's  different  when  you  are 
the  woman." 

"  Yet  if  he  asked  you,"  suggested  the  Admiral, 
"the  world  might  say  that  he  wanted  your 
money." 

"  Why  should  we  care  what  the  world  would 
say?  "  Petronella  was  on  her  feet  now,  defend- 
ing her  cause  vigorously.  "  Why  should  we  care? 
Why,  it's  our  love  against  the  world,  uncle !  Why 
should  we  care?  " 

The  Admiral  stood  up,  too,  and  paced  the  rug  as 
in  former  days  he  had  paced  the  decks.  "  There 
must  be  some  way  out,"  he  said  at  last,  and  stopped 
short.  "  Suppose  I  speak  to  him " 

"And  spoil  it  all !  Oh,  uncle ! "  Petronella 
shook  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  blue  coat.  "A  man 
never  knows  how  a  woman  feels  about  such  things. 
Even  you  don't,  you  old  darling.  And  now  will 
you  please  go;  and  take  this  because  I  love  you," 
and  she  kissed  him  on  one  cheek,  "  and  this  because 
it  is  a  quarter  to  five  and  you'll  have  to  hurry," 
and  she  kissed  him  on  the  other  cheek. 

The  Admiral,  being  helped  into  his  big  cape  in 
the  hall,  called  back,  "  I  forgot  to  give  you  your 
Christmas  present,"  and  he  produced  a  small  pack- 
age. 

"  Come  here  and  let  me  open  it,"  Petronella  in- 
sisted. And  the  Admiral,  without  a  glanco  at  the 

191 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

accusing  clock,  went  back.    And  thus  it  happened 
that  he  was  there  to  meet  the  Man. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  Admiral  suffered  a 
distinct  shock  as  he  was  presented  to  the  hero  of 
Petronella's  romance.  Here  was  no  courtly  youth 
of  the  type  of  the  military  male  line  of  Petronella's 
family,  but  a  muscular  young  giant  of  masterful 
bearing.  The  Hewlett  men  had  commanded  men; 
one  could  see  at  a  glance  that  Justin  Hare  had 
also  commanded  women.  This,  the  wise  old  Ad- 
miral decided  at  once,  was  the  thing  which  had 
attracted  Petronella — Petronella,  who  had  held  her 
own  against  all  masculine  encroachments,  and  who 
was  heart-free  at  twenty-five ! 

"Look  what  this  dearest  dear  of  an  uncle  has 
given  me,"  said  Petronella,  and  held  up  for  the 
young  surgeon's  admiration  a  string  of  pearls  with 
a  sapphire  clasp.  "  They  belonged  to  my  great- 
aunt.  I  was  named  for  her,  and  uncle  says  I  look 
like  her." 

"  You  have  her  eyes,  my  dear,  and  some  of  her 
ways.  But  she  was  less  independent.  In  her  time 
women  leaned  more,  as  it  were,  on  man's  strength." 

Justin  Hare  looked  at  them  with  interest — at  the 
slender  girl  in  her  white  gown,  at  the  tall,  straight 
old  man  with  his  air  of  command. 

"Women  in  these  days  do  not  lean,"  he  said, 
with  decision;  "they  lead." 

192 


PETRONELLA 

A  spark  came  into  Petronella's  eyes.  "And  do 
you  like  the  modern  type  best?  "  she  challenged. 

He  answered  with  smiling  directness,  "I  like 
you." 

The  Admiral  was  pleased  with  that,  though  he 
was  still  troubled  by  this  man's  difference  from  the 
men  of  his  own  race.  Yet  if  back  of  that  honest 
bluntness  there  was  a  heart  which  would  enshrine 
her — well,  that  was  all  he  would  ask  for  this  dearest 
of  girls. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  spoke  hurriedly: 
"  I  must  be  going,  my  dear ;  it  is  long  after 
five." 

"Must  you  really  go?"  asked  the  mendacious 
Petronella. 

An  hour  later  she  was  alone.  The  visit  had  been 
a  failure.  She  admitted  that,  as  she  gazed  with  a 
sort  of  agonized  dismay  through  the  wide  window 
to  where  the  sea  was  churned  by  the  wildness  of 
the  northeast  gale.  Snow  had  come  with  the  wind, 
shutting  out  the  view  of  the  great  empty  hotels  on 
the  Point,  shutting  out,  too,  the  golden  star  of  hope 
which  gleamed  from  the  top  of  the  lighthouse. 

Petronella  turned  away  from  the  blank  scene 
with  a  little  shudder.  Thus  had  Justin  Hare  shut 
her  out  of  his  life.  He  had  talked  of  his  mother  in 
Maine,  of  his  hospital  plans  for  the  winter,  but 
not  a  word  had  he  said  of  those  moonlight  nights 

193 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

when  lie  had  masterfully  swayed  her  by  the  force 
of  his  own  passion,  had  wooed  her,  won  her. 

And  now  there  was  nothing  that  she  could  do. 
There  was  never  anything  that  a  woman  could  do ! 
And  so  she  must  bear  it.  Oh,  if  she  could  bear  it ! 

A  little  later,  when  a  maid  slipped  in  to  light  the 
candles,  Petronella  said  out  of  the  shadows,  "  When 
Jenkins  goes  to  the  post-office,  I  have  a  parcel  for 
the  mail." 

"  He's  been,  miss,  and  there  won't  be  any  train 
out  to-night;  the  snow  has  stopped  the  trains." 

"  Not  any  train ! "  At  first  the  remark  held  little 
significance,  but  finally  the  fact  beat  against  her 
brain.  If  the  one  evening  train  could  not  leave, 
then  Justin  Hare  must  stay  in  town,  and  he  would 
have  to  stay  until  Christmas  morning! 

Petronella  went  at  once  to  the  telephone,  and 
called  up  the  only  hotel  which  was  open  at  that 
season.  Presently  she  had  Hare  at  the  other  end 
of  the  line. 

"You  must  come  to  my  house  to  dinner,"  she 
said.  "Jenkins  has  told  me  about  your  train. 
Please  don't  dress — there'll  be  only  ]VIiss  Danvers 
and  uncle;  and  you  shall  help  me  trim  my  little 
tree." 

Althougk  she  told  Mm  not  to  dress,  she  changed 
her  gown  for  one  of  dull  green  velvet,  built  on  the 
simple  lines  of  the  white  wool  she  had  worn  in  the 

194 


PETRONELLA 

afternoon.  The  square  neck  was  framed  by  a 
collar  of  Venetian  point,  and  there  was  a  queer  old 
pin  of  pearls. 

The  Admiral,  arriving  early,  demanded:  "My 
dear,  what  is  this?  I  was  just  sitting  down  to 
bread  and  milk  and  a  handful  of  raisins,  and  now 
I  must  dine  in  six  courses,  and  drink  coffee,  which 
will  keep  me  awake." 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  arm.  "  Mr.  Hare's 
train  couldn't  get  out  of  town  on  account  of  the 
snow." 

"  And  he's  coming?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  But  what  of  this  afternoon,  my  dear?  " 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his,  and  they  stood 
gazing  into  the  fire.  "  It  was  dreadful,  uncle.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  I  had  compelled  him  to  come — 
against  his  will." 

"  Yet  you  have  asked  him  to  come  again  to- 
night? " 

She  shivered  a  little,  and  her  hand  was  cold. 
"  Perhaps  I  shall  regret  it — but  oh,  uncle,  can't  I 
have  for  this  one  evening  the  joy  of  his  presence? 
And  if  to-morrow  my  heart  dies " 

"  Nella,  my  dear  child " 

The  Admiral's  own  Petronella  had  never  drawn 
in  this  way  upon  his  emotions.  She  had  been  gen- 
tle, perhaps  a  little  cold.  But  then  he  had  always 

195 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

worshiped  at  her  shrine.  Perhaps  a  woman  de- 
nied the  love  she  yearns  for  learns  the  value  of  it. 
At  any  rate,  here  in  his  arms  was  the  dearest  thing 
in  his  lonely  life,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

When  Justin  came,  a  half-hour  later,  he  found 
them  still  in  front  of  the  fire  in  the  great  hall,  and 
as  she  rose  to  welcome  him  he  saw  that  Petronella 
had  been  sitting  on  a  stool  at  her  uncle's  feet. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl,"  she  explained,  when 
Hare  had  taken  a  chair  on  the  hearth  and  she  had 
chosen  another  with  a  high,  carved  back,  in  which 
she  sat  with  her  silken  ankles  crossed  and  the  tips 
of  her  slipper  toes  resting  on  a  leopard-skin  which 
the  Admiral  had  brought  back  from  India — "  when 
I  was  a  little  girl  we  always  spent  Christmas  Eve 
in  this  house  by  the  sea  instead  of  in  town.  We 
were  all  here  then — mother  and  dad  and  dear  Aunt 
Pet,  and  we  hung  our  stockings  at  this  very  fire- 
place— and  now  there  is  no  one  but  Miss  Danvers 
and  me,  and  uncle,  who  lives  up  aloft  in  his  big 
house  across  the  way,  where  he  has  a  lookout  tower. 
I  always  feel  like  calling  up  to  him  when  I  go 
there,  '  Oh,  Anne,  Sister  Anne,  do  you  see  anybody 
coming? ' " 

She  was  talking  nervously,  with  her  cheeks  as 
white  as  a  lily,  but  with  her  eyes  shining.  The  Ad- 
miral glanced  at  Hare.  The  young  man  was  drink- 

196 


PETRONELLA 

ing  in  her  beauty.    But  suddenly  he  frowned  and 
turned  away  his  eyes. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  ask  me  over,"  he 
said,  formally. 

That  steadied  Petronella.  Her  nervous  self -con- 
sciousness fled,  and  she  was  at  once  the  gracious, 
impersonal  hostess. 

The  Admiral  glowed  with  pride  of  her.  "  She'll 
carrv  it  off,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  it's  in  her  blood." 

"  Dinner  is  served,"  announced  Jenkins  from  the 
doorway,  and  then  Miss  Danvers  came  down  and 
greeted  Justin,  and  they  all  went  out  together. 

There  was  holly  for  a  centerpiece,  and  four  red 
candles  in  silver  holders.  The  table  was  of  richly 
carved  mahogany,  and  the  Admiral,  following  an 
old  custom,  served  the  soup  from  a  silver  tureen, 
upheld  by  four  fat  cupids.  From  the  wide  arch 
which  led  into  the  great  hall  was  hung  a  bunch  of 
mistletoe;  beyond  the  arch,  the  roaring  fire  made 
a  background  of  gleaming,  golden  light. 

To  the  young  surgeon  it  seemed  a  fairy  scene 
flaming  with  the  color  and  glow  of  a  life  which  he 
had  never  known.  He  had  lived  so  long  sur- 
rounded by  the  bare,  blank  walls  of  a  hospital.  Even 
Petronella's  soft  green  gown  seemed  made  of  some 
mystical  stuff  which  had  nothing  in  common  with 
the  cool  white  or  blue  starchiness  of  the  uniforms 
of  nurses. 

197 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

They  talked  of  many  things,  covering  with  their 
commonplaces  the  tenseness  of  the  situation. 
Then  suddenly  the  conversation  took  a  significant 
turn. 

"I  love  these  stormy  nights,"  Petronella  had 
said,  "with  the  snow  blowing,  and  the  wind,  and 
the  house  all  warm  and  bright." 

"  Think  of  the  poor  sailors  at  sea,"  Hare  had  re- 
minded her. 

"Please — I  don't  want  to  think  of  them.  We 
have  done  our  best  for  them,  uncle  and  I.  We  have 
opened  a  reading-room  down  by  the  docks,  so  that 
all  who  are  ashore  can  have  soup  and  coffee  and 
sandwiches,  and  there's  a  big  stove,  and  newspapers 
and  magazines." 

"  You  dispense  charity?  " 

"  Why  not?  "  she  asked  him,  confidently.  "  We 
have  plenty — why  shouldn't  we  give?  " 

"  Because  it  takes  away  from  their  manhood  to 
receive." 

The  Admiral  spoke  bluntly.  "  The  men  don't 
feel  it  that  way.  This  charity,  as  you  call  it,  is  a 
memorial  to  my  wife.  The  grandfathers  of  these 
boys  used  to  see  her  light  in  the  window  of  the  old 
house  on  stormy  nights,  and  they  knew  that  it  was 
an  invitation  to  good  cheer.  More  than  one  crew 
coming  in  half  frozen  were  glad  of  the  soup  and 
coffee  which  were  sent  down  to  them  in  cans  with 

198 


PETRONELLA 

baskets  of  bread.  And  this  little  coffee-room  lias 
been  the  outgrowth  of  just  such,  hospitality. 
There  are  too  many  of  the  men  to  have  in  my  house. 
I  simply  entertain  them  elsewhere,  and  I  like  to  go 
and  talk  to  them,  and  sometimes  Petronella  goes." 

"  There's  a  picture  of  dear  Aunt  Pet  hanging 
there,"  said  Petronella,  "and  you  can't  imagine 
how  it  softens  the  manners  of  the  men.  It  is  as  if 
her  spirit  brooded  over  the  place.  They  have  made 
it  into  a  sort  of  shrine,  and  they  bring  shells  and 
queer  carved  things  to  put  on  the  shelf  below  it." 

"  In  the  city  we  are  beginning  to  think  that  such 
methods  weaken  self-respect." 

"  That's  because,"  said  the  wise  old  Admiral,  "  in 
the  city  there  isn't  any  real  democracy.  You  give 
your  friend  a  cup  of  coffee  and  think  nothing  of  it, 
yet  when  I  give  a  cup  of  coffee  to  a  sailor  whose 
grandfather  and  mine  fished  together  on  the  banks, 
you  warn  me  that  my  methods  tend  to  pauperize. 
In  the  city  the  poor  are  never  your  friends — in  this 
little  town  no  man  would  admit  that  he  is  less  than 
I.  They  like  my  coffee  and  they  drink  it." 

Petronella,  seeing  her  chance,  took  it.  "  I  think 
people  are  horrid  to  let  money  make  a  difference." 

"  You  say  that,"  said  Hare,  "  because  you  have 
never  had  to  accept  favors — you  have,  in  other 
words,  never  been  on  the  other  side." 

The  Admiral,  taking  up  cudgels  for  his  niece, 
199 


answered,  "  If  she  had  been  on  the  other  side,  she 
would  have  taken  life  as  she  takes  it  now — like  a 
gentleman  and  a  soldier,"  and  he  smiled  at  Pet- 
ronella. 

Hare  had  a  baffled  sense  that  the  Admiral  was 
right  —  that  Petronella's  fineness  and  delicacy 
would  never  go  down  in  defeat  or  despair.  She 
would  hold  her  head  high  though  the  heavens  fell. 
But  could  any  man  make  such  demands  upon  her? 
For  himself,  he  would  not. 

So  he  answered,  doggedly,  "We  shall  hope  she 
need  never  be  tested."  And  Petronella's  heart 
sank  like  lead. 

But  presently  she  began  to  talk  about  the  little 
tree.  "We  have  always  had  it  in  uncle's  lookout 
tower.  That  was  another  of  dear  Aunt  Pet's 
thoughts  for  the  sailors.  On  clear  nights  they 
looked  through  their  glasses  for  the  little  colored 
lights,  and  on  stormy  nights  they  knew  that  back  of 
all  the  snow  was  the  Christmas  brightness." 

"  I  never  had  a  tree,"  said  Justin.  "  When  I  was 
a  kiddie  we  had  pretty  hard  times,  and  the  best 
Christmas  I  remember  was  one  when  mother  made 
us  boys  put  up  a  shelf  for  our  books,  and  she 
started  our  collection  with  '  Treasure  Island '  and 
i  Huckleberry  Finn.' " 

In  the  adjoining  room,  volumes  reached  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  from  end  to  end.  Petronella  had 

200 


PETRONELLA 

a  vision  of  this  vivid  young  giant  gloating  over  Ms 
two  books  on  a  rude  shelf.  And  all  her  life  she  had 
had  the  things  she  wanted !  Somehow  the  thought 
took  the  bitterness  out  of  her  attitude  toward  him. 
How  strong  he  must  be  to  deny  himself  now  the 
one  great  thing  that  he  craved  when  his  life  had 
held  so  little. 

"  How  lovely  to  begin  with  just  those  two  books," 
she  said,  softly,  and  the  radiance  of  her  smile  was 
dazzling. 

When  she  showed  him  her  presents  she  was  still 
radiant.  There  was  a  queer  opera-bag  of  Chinese 
needlework,  with  handles  of  jade,  a  Damascus  bowl 
of  pierced  brass,  a  tea-caddy  in  quaint  Dutch  re- 
pousse; there  was  a  silver-embroidered  altar-cloth 
for  a  cushion,  a  bit  of  Copenhagen  faience,  all  the 
sophisticated  artistry  which  is  sent  to  those  who 
have  no  need  for  the  commonplace.  There  were 
jewels,  too:  a  bracelet  of  topazes  surrounded  by 
brilliants,  a  pair  of  slipper  buckles  of  turquoises 
set  in  silver,  a  sapphire  circlet  for  her  little  finger, 
a  pendant  of  seed  pearls. 

As  she  opened  the  parcels  and  displayed  her 
riches  Justin  felt  bewildered.  His  gifts  to  his 
mother  had  included  usually  gloves  and  a  generous 
check;  if  he  had  ventured  to  choose  anything  for 
Petronella  he  would  not  have  dared  go  beyond  a 
box  of  candy  or  a  book;  he  had  given  his  nurses 

201 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

pocketbooks  and  handkerchiefs.  And  the  men  of 
Petronella's  world  bestowed  on  her  brass  bowls  and 
tea-caddies ! 

Miss  Danvers  vanished  up-stairs.  The  Ad- 
miral, having  admired,  slipped  away  to  the  library, 
encouraged  by  Petronella's  whispered :  "  Oh,  uncle 
dear,  leave  us  alone  for  just  a  little  minute.  I've 
found  a  way ! " 

Then  Petronella,  with  that  radiance  still  upon 
her,  sat  down  on  her  little  stool  in  front  of  the  fire, 
and  looked  at  Justin  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth. 

"  You  haven't  given  me  anything,"  she  began,  re- 
proachfully. 

"What  could  I  give  that  would  compare  with 
these?  "  His  hand  swept  toward  the  exquisite  dis- 
play. "  What  could  I  give " 

"  There's  one  thing,"  softly. 

«  What?  " 

"That  copy  of  ' Treasure  Island'  that  your 
mother  gave  you  long  ago." 

Dead  silence.  Then,  unsteadily :  "  Why  should 
you  want  that?  " 

"  Because  your  mother — loved  you." 

Again  dead  silence.  Hare  did  not  look  at  her. 
His  hand  clenched  the  arm  of  his  chair.  His  face 
was  white.  Then,  very  low,  "  Why  do  you — make 
it  hard  for  me?  " 

"Because  I  want — the  book";  she  was  smiling 
202 


PETRONELLA. 

at  him  with,  her  eyes  like  stars.  "  I  want  to  read 
it  with  the  eyes  of  the  little  boy — with  the  eyes  of 
the  little  boy  who  looked  into  the  future  and  saw 
life  as  a  great  adventure;  who  looked  into  the  fu- 
ture— and  dreamed." 

He  had  a  vision,  too,  of  that  little  boy,  reading, 
in  the  old  house  in  the  Maine  woods,  by  the  light  of 
an  oil-lamp,  on  Christmas  Eve,  with  the  snow 
blowing  outside  as  it  blew  to-night. 

"And  your  mother  loved  you  because  she  loved 
your  father,"  the  girl's  voice  went  on,  "and  you 
were  all  very  happy  up  there  in  the  forest.  Do  you 
remember  that  you  told  me  about  it  on  the  ship? — 
you  were  happy,  although  you  were  poor,  and  hadn't 
any  books  but  *  Treasure  Island '  and  *  Huckleberry 
Finn.'  But  your  mother  was  happy — because 
she — loved  your  father." 

As  she  repeated  it,  she  leaned  forward.  "  Could 
you  think  of  your  mother  as  having  been  happy 
with  any  one  else  but  your  father?  "  she  asked. 
"  Could  you  think  of  her  as  having  never  married 
him,  of  having  gone  through  the  rest  of  her  days 
a  half-woman,  because  he  would  not — take  her — 
into  his  life?  Can  you  think  that  all  the  money  in 
the  world — all  the  money  in  the  whole  world — 
would — would  have  made  up " 

The  room  seemed  to  darken.  Hare  was  conscious 
that  her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands,  that  he 

203 


TEE  OAT  COCKADE 

stumbled  toward  her,  that  lie  knelt  beside  her — that 
she  was  in  his  arms. 

"  Hush,"  he  was  saying  in  that  beating  darkness 
of  emotion.  "  Hush,  don't  cry — I — I  will  never  let 
you  go " 

When  the  storm  had  spent  itself  and  when  at 
last  she  met  his  long  gaze,  he  whispered,  "  I'm  not 
sure  now  that  it  is  right " 

"  You  will  be  sure  as  the  years  go  on,"  she 
whispered  back ;  then,  tremulously :  "  but  I — I  could 
never  have — talked  that  way  if  I  had  thought  of  you 
as  the  man.  I  had  to  think  of  you  as  the  little 
boy — who  dreamed." 


204 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

"Mr  great-grandfather  slept  in  it,"  Van  Alen 
told  the  caretaker,  as  she  ushered  him  into  the  big 
stuffy  bedroom. 

The  old  woman  set  her  candlestick  down  on  the 
quaint  dresser.  "  He  must  have  been  a  little  man," 
she  said ;  "  none  of  my  sons  could  sleep  in  it.  Their 
feet  would  hang  over." 

Van  Alen  eyed  the  big  bed  curiously.  All  his  life 
he  had  heard  of  it,  and  now  he  had  traveled  far  to 
see  it.  It  was  a  lumbering  structure  of  great  width 
and  of  strangely  disproportionate  length.  And  the 
coverlet  and  the  canopy  were  of  rose-colored  chintz. 

"  I  think  I  shall  fit  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

Mrs.  Brand's  critical  glance  weighed  his  small- 
ness,  his  immaculateness,  his  difference  from  her 
own  great  sons. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  open  rudeness  of  the 
country-bred ;  "  yes,  you  ain't  very  big." 

Van  Alen  winced.  Even  from  the  lips  of  this 
uncouth  woman  the  truth  struck  hard.  But  he 
carried  the  topic  forward  with  the  light  ease  of  a 
man  of  the  world. 

"  My  grandfather  had  the  bed  sawed  to  his  own 
206 


length,"  lie  explained;  "did  you  ever  hear  the 
story?" 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  I  ain't  been  here  long.  They 
kept  the  house  shut  up  till  this  year." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  down,"  and  Van 
Alen  opened  his  bag  with  a  finality  that  sent  the 
old  woman  to  the  door. 

"  Supper's  ready,"  she  told  him,  "  whenever  you 
are." 

At  the  supper  table  the  four  big  sons  towered 
above  Van  Alen.  They  ate  with  appetites  like 
giants,  and  they  had  big  ways  and  hearty  laughs 
that  seemed  to  dwarf  their  guest  into  insignificance. 

But  the  insignificance  was  that  of  body  only,  for 
Van  Alen,  fresh  from  the  outside  world  and  a  good 
talker  at  all  times,  dominated  the  table  conversa- 
tionally. 

To  what  he  had  to  say  the  men  listened  eagerly, 
and  the  girl  who  waited  on  the  table  listened. 

She  was  a  vivid  personality,  with  burnished  hair, 
flaming  cheeks,  eyes  like  the  sea.  Her  hands,  as  she 
passed  the  biscuits,  were  white,  and  the  fingers  went 
down  delicately  to  little  points.  Van  Alen,  noting 
these  things  keenly,  knew  that  she  was  out  of  her 
place,  and  wondered  how  she  came  there. 

At  the  end  of  the  meal  he  told  the  story  of  the 
Canopy  Bed. 

"  My  great-grandfather  was  a  little  man,  and  very 
206 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

sensitive  about  his  height.  In  the  days  of  his  early 
manhood  he  spent  much  time  in  devising  ways  to  de- 
ceive people  into  thinking  him  taller.  He  sur- 
rounded himself  with  big  things,  had  a  big  bed 
made,  wore  high-heeled  boots,  and  the  crown  of  his 
hat  was  so  tall  that  he  was  almost  overbalanced. 

"  But  for  all  that,  he  was  a  little  man  among  the 
sturdy  men  of  his  generation,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  Revolution  I  think  he  would  have  died  rail- 
ing at  fate.  But  the  war  brought  him  opportunity. 
My  little  great-grandfather  fought  in  it,  and  won 
great  honors,  and  straight  back  home  he  came  and 
had  the  bed  sawed  off !  He  wanted  future  genera- 
tions to  see  what  a  little  man  could  do,  and  his  will 
provided  that  this  house  should  not  be  sold,  and 
that,  when  his  sons  and  grandsons  had  proved  them- 
selves worthy  of  it  by  some  achievement,  they 
should  come  here  and  sleep.  I  think  he  swaggered 
a  little  when  he  wrote  that  will,  and  he  has  put  his 
descendants  in  an  embarrassing  position.  We  can 
never  sleep  in  the  canopy  bed  without  taking  more 
upon  ourselves  than  modesty  permits ! " 

He  laughed,  and  instinctively  his  eyes  sought 
those  of  the  girl  who  waited  on  the  table.  Some- 
how he  felt  that  she  was  the  only  one  who  could 
understand. 

She  came  back  at  him  with  a  question :  "  What 
have  you  done?  " 

207 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  I  have  written  a  book,"  he  told  her. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  there  were  little  sparks 
of  light  in  her  eyes.  "  I  don't  believe  that  was  what 
your  grandfather  meant,"  she  said,  slowly. 

They  stared  at  her — three  of  the  brothers  with 
their  knives  and  forks  uplifted,  the  fourth,  a  blond 
Titanic  youngster,  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his 
face  turned  up  to  her,  as  to  the  sun. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  meant  something  done  with 

your  brains,  but  something  fine,  heroic " 

There  was  a  hint  of  scorn  in  her  voice. 

Van  Alen  flushed.  He  was  fresh  from  the  adula- 
tion of  his  bookish  world. 

"  I  should  not  have  come,"  he  explained,  uncom- 
fortably, "  if  my  mother  had  not  desired  that  I  pre- 
serve the  tradition  of  the  family." 

"  It  is  a  great  thing  to  write  a  book  " — she  was 
leaning  forward,  aflame  with  interest — "  but  I  don't 
believe  he  meant  just  that " 

He  laughed.  "  Then  I  am  not  to  sleep  in  the 
canopy  bed?  " 

The  girl  laughed  too.  "  !Nbt  unless  you  want  to 
be  haunted  by  his  ghost." 

With  a  backward  flashing  glance,  she  went  into 
the  kitchen,  and  Van  Alen,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
started  to  explore  the  old  house. 

Except  for  the  wing,  occupied  by  the  caretaker, 
nothing  had  been  disturbed  since  the  family,  seek- 

208 


TEE  CANOPY  BED 

ing  new  fortunes  in  the  city,  had  left  the  old  home- 
stead to  decay  among  the  desolate  fields  that  yielded 
now  a  meagre  living  for  Mrs.  Brand  and  her  four 
strapping  sons. 

In  the  old  parlor,  where  the  ancient  furniture 
showed  ghostlike  shapes  in  the  dimness,  and  the 
dead  air  was  like  a  tomb,  Van  Alen  found  a  picture 
of  his  great-grandfather. 

The  little  man  had  been  painted  without  flattery. 
There  he  sat — Lilliputian  on  the  great  charger! 
At  that  moment  Van  Alen  hated  him — that  Hop-o'- 
my-Thumb  of  another  age,  founder  of  a  pigmy  race, 
who,  by  his  braggart  will,  had  that  night  brought 
upon  this  one  of  his  descendants  the  scorn  of  a 
woman. 

And  even  as  he  thought  of  her,  she  came  in,  with 
the  yellow  flare  of  a  candle  lighting  her  vivid 
face. 

"  I  thought  you  might  need  a  light,"  she  said ; 
"  it  grows  dark  so  soon." 

As  he  took  the  candle  from  her,  he  said  abruptly : 
"  I  shall  not  sleep  in  the  canopy  bed ;  there  is  a 
couch  in  the  room." 

"  Oh,"  her  tone  was  startled,  "  you  shouldn't  have 
taken  all  that  I  said  in  earnest." 

"  But  you  meant  it?  " 

"  In  a  way,  yes.  I  have  been  in  here  so  often 
and  have  looked  at  your  grandfather's  picture. 

209 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

He  was  a  great  little  man — you  can  tell  from  his 
eyes — they  seem  to  speak  at  times." 

"  To  you?  " 

"  Yes.  Of  how  he  hated  to  be  little,  and  how  he 
triumphed  when  fame  came  at  last." 

"  I  hate  to  be  little " 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  owned  it. 
Even  as  a  tiny  boy  he  had  brazened  it  out,  boasting 
of  his  mental  achievements  and  slurring  the  weak- 
ness of  his  stunted  body. 

"  I  know,"  she  had  shut  the  kitchen  door  behind 
her,  and  they  were  standing  in  the  hallway  alone, 
"  I  know.  Every  man  must  want  to  be  big." 

She  was  only  the  girl  who  had  waited  on  the 
table,  but  as  she  stood  there,  looking  at  him  with 
luminous  eyes,  he  burned  with  dull  resentment, 
envying  the  blond  boy  who  had  sprawled  at  the 
head  of  the  supper  table.  After  all,  it  was  to  such 
a  man  as  Otto  Brand  that  this  woman  would  some 
day  turn. 

He  spoke  almost  roughly :  "  Size  isn't  every- 
thing." She  flushed.  "  How  rude  you  must  think 
me,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  have  been  so  interested  in  dis- 
secting your  grandfather  that  I  forgot — you " 

Van  Alen  was  moved  by  an  impulse  that  he  could 
not  control,  a  primitive  impulse  that  was  not  in 
line  with  his  usual  repression. 

"  I  am  tempted  to  make  you  remember  me,"  he 
210 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

said  slowly,  and  after  that  there  was  a  startled 
silence.  And  then  she  went  away. 

As  he  passed  the  sitting-room  on  his  way  up- 
stairs, he  looked  in,  and  spoke  to  Otto  Brand. 

More  than  any  of  the  other  brothers,  Otto  typi- 
fied strength  and  beauty,  but  in  his  eyes  was  never 
a  dream,  his  brain  had  mastered  nothing.  He  was 
playing  idly  with  the  yellow  cat,  but  he  stopped  at 
Van  Alen's  question. 

"  Her  great-grandfather  and  yours  were  neigh- 
bors," the  boy  said,  with  his  cheeks  flushing; 
"  they  own  the  next  farm." 

"  The  Wetherells?  "  Van  Alen  inquired. 

The  boy  nodded.  "  They  ain't  got  a  cent. 
They're  land  poor.  That's  why  she's  here.  But 
she  don't  need  to  work." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  There's  plenty  that  wants  to  marry  her  round 
about,"  was  the  boy's  self-conscious  summing  up. 

With  a  sense  of  revolt,  Van  Alen  left  him,  and, 
undressing  in  the  room  with  the  canopy  bed,  he 
called  up  vaguely  the  vision  of  a  little  girl  who  had 
visited  them  in  the  city.  She  had  had  green  eyes 
and  freckles  and  red  hair.  Beyond  that  she  had 
made  no  impression  on  his  callowness.  And  her 
name  was  Mazie  Wetherell. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  couch,  and  the  night 
winds,  coming  in  through  the  open  window,  stirred 

211 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

the  curtains  of  the  canopy  bed  with  the  light  touch 
of  a  ghostly  hand. 

Then  dreams  came,  and  through  them  ran  the 
thread  of  his  hope  of  seeing  Mazie  Wetherell  in  the 
morning. 

But  even  with  such  preparation,  her  beauty 
seemed  to  come  upon  him  unawares  when  he  saw 
her  at  breakfast.  And  again  at  noon,  and  again  at 
night.  But  it  was  the  third  day  before  he  saw  her 
alone. 

All  that  day  he  had  explored  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  family  estate,  finding  it  barren,  find- 
ing that  the  population  of  the  little  village  at  its 
edge  had  decreased  to  a  mere  handful  of  laggards, 
finding  that  there  was  no  lawyer  within  miles  and 
but  one  doctor ;  gaining  a  final  impression  that  back 
here  in  the  hills  men  would  come  no  more  where 
once  men  had  thronged. 

It  was  almost  evening  when  he  followed  a  fur- 
rowed brown  road  that  led  westward.  Above  the 
bleak  line  of  the  horizon  the  sun  hung,  a  red  gold 
disk.  There  were  other  reds,  too,  along  the  way — 
the  sumac  flaming  scarlet  against  the  gray  fence- 
rails  ;  the  sweetbrier,  crimson-spotted  with  berries ; 
the  creeper,  clinging  with  ruddy  fingers  to  dead 
tree-trunks ;  the  maple  leaves  rosy  with  first  frosts. 

And  into  this  vividness  came  the  girl  who  had 
waited  on  the  table,  and  her  flaming  cheeks  and 

212 


TEE  CANOPY  BED 

copper  hair  seemed  to  challenge  the  glow  of  the 
autumn  landscape. 

She  would  have  passed  him  with  a  nod,  but  he 
stopped  her. 

"  You  must  not  run  away,  Mazie  Wetherell,"  he 
said ;  "  you  used  to  treat  me  better  than  that  when 
you  were  a  little  girl." 

She  laughed.  "Do  you  remember  my  freckles 
and  red  hair?  " 

"  I  remember  your  lovely  manners." 

"  I  had  to  have  nice  manners.  It  is  only  pretty 
children  who  can  afford  to  be  bad." 

"And  pretty  women?  "  he  asked,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  color  that  came  and  went. 

She  flung  out  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  protest. 
"  I  have  seen  so  few." 

His  lips  were  opened  to  tell  her  of  her  own 
beauty,  but  something  restrained  him,  some  percep- 
tion of  maidenly  dignity  that  enfolded  her  and 
made  her  more  than  the  girl  who  had  waited  on  the 
table. 

"  You  were  a  polite  little  boy,"  she  recalled,  fill- 
ing the  breach  made  by  his  silence.  "  I  remember 
that  you  carried  me  across  the  street,  to  save  my 
slippers  from  the  wet.  I  thought  you  were  won- 
derful. I  have  never  forgotten." 

Neither  had  Van  Alen  forgotten.  It  had  been  a 
great  feat  for  his  little  strength.  There  had  been 

213 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

other  boys  there,  bigger  boys,  but  he  had  offered, 
and  had  been  saved  humiliation  by  her  girlish  slim- 
ness  and  feather  weight. 

"  I  was  a  strong  little  fellow  then,"  was  his  com- 
ment :  "  I  am  a  strong  little  fellow  now." 

She  turned  on  him  reproachful  eyes.  "  Why  do 
you  always  harp  on  it?  "  she  demanded. 

"  On  what?  " 

"  Your  size.  You  twist  everything,  turn  every- 
thing, so  that  we  come  back  to  it." 

He  tried  to  answer  lightly,  but  his  voice  shook. 
"Perhaps  it  is  because  in  your  presence  I  desire 
more  than  ever  the  full  stature  of  a  man." 

He  was  in  deadly  earnest.  Hitherto  he  had  been 
willing  to  match  his  brain,  his  worldly  knowledge, 
Ms  ancestry,  against  the  charms  of  the  women  he 
had  met;  but  here  with  this  girl,  standing  like  a 
young  goddess  under  the  wide,  sunset  sky,  he  felt 
that  only  for  strength  and  beauty  should  she  choose 
her  mate. 

He  wondered  what  he  must  seem  in  her  eyes ;  with 
his  shoulder  on  a  level  with  hers,  with  his  stocky 
build  that  saved  him  from  effeminacy,  his  careful- 
ness of  attire — which  is  at  once  the  burden  and  the 
salvation  of  the  small  man. 

As  for  his  face,  he  knew  that  its  homeliness  was 
redeemed  by  a  certain  strength  of  chin,  by  keen 
gray  eyes,  and  by  a  shock  of  dark  hair  that  showed 

214 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

a  little  white  at  the  temples.  There  were  worse- 
looking  men,  he  knew,  but  that,  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, gave  little  comfort. 

She  chose  to  receive  his  remark  in  silence,  and, 
as  they  came  to  a  path  that  branched  from  the  road, 
she  said: 

"  I  am  going  to  help  take  care  of  a  child  who  is 
sick.  You  see  I  am  mistress  of  all  trades — nurse, 
waitress,  charwoman,  when  there  is  nothing  else." 

He  glanced  at  her  hands.  "I  cannot  believe 
that  you  scrub,"  he  said. 

"  I  sit  up  at  night  to  care  for  my  hands  " — there 
was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  her  tone — "  and  I  wear 
gloves  when  I  work.  There  are  some  things  that 
one  desires  to  hold  on  to,  and  my  mother  and  my 
grandmother  were  ladies  of  leisure." 

"  Would  you  like  that — to  be  a  lady  of  leisure?  " 

She  turned  and  smiled  at  him.  "How  can  I 
tell?  "  she  asked ;  "  I  have  never  tried  it." 

She  started  to  leave  him  as  she  said  it,  but  he 
held  her  with  a  question :  "  Shall  you  sit  up  all 
night?  " 

She  nodded.  "  His  mother  has  had  no  sleep  for 
two  nights." 

"  Is  he  very  ill?  " 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Who  knows? 
There  is  no  doctor  near,  and  his  mother  is  poor. 
"We  are  fighting  it  out  together." 

215 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

There  was  something  heroic  in  her  cool  accept- 
ance of  her  hard  life.  He  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  said :  "  Would  you  have  time  to 
read  my  book  to-night?  " 

"  Oh,  if  I  might,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  but  you 
haven't  it  with  you." 

"  I  will  bring  it,"  he  told  her,  "  after  supper." 

"  But,"  she  protested. 

"  There  are  no  '  buts/  "  he  said,  smiling ;  "  if  you 
will  read  it,  I  will  get  it  to  you." 

The  sky  had  darkened,  and,  as  he  went  toward 
home,  he  faced  clouds  in  the  southeast. 

"  It  is  going  to  rain,"  Otto  Brand  prophesied  as 
they  sat  down  to  supper. 

The  other  three  men  hoped  that  it  would  not. 
Already  the  ground  was  soaked,  making  the  cutting 
of  corn  impossible,  and  another  rain  with  a  frost 
on  top  of  it  would  spoil  all  chance  of  filling  the 
silo. 

Van  Alen  could  not  enter  into  their  technical 
objections.  He  hoped  it  would  not  rain,  because 
he  wanted  to  take  a  book  to  Mazie  Wetherell,  and 
he  had  not  brought  a  rain-coat. 

But  it  did  rain,  and  he  went  without  a  rain-coat ! 

The  house,  as  he  neared  it,  showed  no  light,  and 
under  the  thick  canopy  of  the  trees  there  was  no 
sound  but  the  drip,  drip  of  the  rain.  By  feeling 
and  instinct  he  found  the  front  door,  and  knocked. 

216 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

There  was  a  movement  inside,  and  then  Mazie 
WethereU  asked  softly :  "  Who's  there?  " 

"  I  have  brought  the  book." 

The  bolt  was  withdrawn,  and  in  the  hall,  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  shaded  lamp  in  the  room  beyond, 
stood  the  girl,  in  a  loose  gray  gown,  with  braided 
shining  hair — a  shadowy  being,  half-merged  into 
the  shadows. 

"I  thought  you  would  not  come,"  in  a  hushed 
tone,  "  in  such  a  storm." 

"  I  said  I  should  come.  The  book  may  help  you 
through  the  long  night." 

She  caught  her  breath  quickly.  "  The  child  is 
awfully  ill." 

"Are  you  afraid?    Let  me  stay." 

"  Oh,  no,  no.  His  mother  is  sleeping,  and  I  shall 
have  your  book." 

She  did  not  ask  him  in,  and  so  he  went  away  at 
once,  beating  his  way  back  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
fording  a  little  stream  where  the  low  foot-bridge 
was  covered,  reaching  home  soaking  wet,  but  afire 
with  dreams. 

Otto  Brand  was  waiting  for  him,  a  little  curious 
as  to  what  had  taken  him  out  so  late,  but,  getting 
no  satisfaction,  he  followed  Van  Alen  up-stairs, 
and  built  a  fire  for  him  in  the  big  bedroom.  And 
presently,  in  the  light  of  the  leaping  flames,  the 
roses  on  the  canopy  of  the  bed  glowed  pink. 

217 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

"Ain't  you  goin*  to  sleep  in  the  ted?"  Otto 
asked,  as  he  watched  Van  Alen  arrange  the  covers 
on  the  couch. 

"  JSTo,"  said  Van  Alen  shortly,  "  the  honor  is  too 
great.  It  might  keep  me  awake.'* 

"  My  feet  would  hang  over,"  Otto  said.  "  Funny 
thing,  wasn't  it,  for  a  man  to  make  a  will  like 
that?  " 

"I  suppose  every  man  has  a  right  to  do  as  he 
pleases,"  Van  Alen  responded  coldly.  He  was  not 
inclined  to  discuss  the  eccentricities  of  his  little  old 
ancestor  with  this  young  giant. 

"  Of  course,"  Otto  agreed,  and  his  next  remark 
was  called  forth  by  Van  Alen's  pale  blue  pajamas. 

"  Well,  those  are  new  on  me." 

Van  Alen  explained  that  in  the  city  they  were 
worn,  and  that  silk  was  cool,  but  while  he  talked 
he  was  possessed  by  a  kind  of  fury.  For  the  first 
time  the  delicate  garments,  the  luxurious  toilet 
articles  packed  in  his  bag,  seemed  foppish,  unneces 
sary,  things  for  a  woman.  With  all  of  them,  he 
could  not  compete  with  this  fair  young  god,  who 
used  a  rough  towel  and  a  tin  basin  on  the  kitchen 
bench. 

"  Maybe  I'd  better  go,"  the  boy  offered.  "  You'll 
want  to  go  to  bed." 

But  Van  Alen  held  him.  "  I  always  smoke  first," 
he  said,  and,  wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  he 

218 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

flung  himself  into  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  fireplace. 

And  after  a  time  he  brought  the  conversation 
around  to  Mazie  Wetherell. 

He  found  the  boy  rather  sure  of  his  success  with 
her. 

"All  women  are  alike,"  he  said ;  "  you've  just  got 
to  keep  after  them  long  enough." 

To  Van  Alen  the  idea  of  this  hulking  youngster 
as  a  suitor  for  such  a  woman  seemed  preposterous. 
He  was  not  fit  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  garment. 
He  was  unmannerly,  uneducated ;  he  was  not  of  her 
class — and  even  as  he  analyzed,  the  boy  stood  up, 
perfect  in  his  strong  young  manhood. 

"  I've  never  had  much  trouble  making  women 
like  me,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  give  up,  just 
because  she  thinks  she's  better  than  the  rest  round 
about  here." 

He  went  away,  and  Van  Alen  stared  long  into  the 
fire,  until  the  flames  left  a  heart  of  opal  among  the 
ashes. 

He  had  not  been  unsuccessful  with  women  him- 
self. Many  of  them  had  liked  him,  and  might  have 
loved  him  if  he  had  cared  to  make  them.  But  un- 
til he  met  Mazie  Wetherell  he  had  not  cared. 

Desperately  he  wished  for  some  trial  of  courage 
where  he  might  be  matched  against  Otto  Brand. 
He  grew  melodramatic  in  his  imaginings,  and  saw 

219 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

himself  at  a  fire,  fighting  the  flames  to  reach  Mazie, 
while  Otto  Brand  shrank  back.  He  stood  in  the 
path  of  runaway  horses,  and  Otto  showed  the  white 
feather.  He  nursed  her  through  the  plague,  and 
Otto  fled  fearfully  from  the  disease. 

And  then  having  reached  the  end  of  impossibili- 
ties, he  stood  up  and  shook  himself. 

"  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said  to  the  flames,  shortly,  and 
went  to  bed,  to  lie  awake,  wondering  whether  Mazie 
"Wetherell  had  reached  that  chapter  of  his  book 
where  he  had  written  of  love,  deeply,  reverently, 
with  a  foreknowledge  of  what  it  might  mean  to  him 
some  day.  It  was  that  chapter  which  had  assured 
the  success  of  his  novel.  Would  it  move  her,  as  it 
had  moved  him  when  he  reread  it?  That  was  what 
love  ought  to  be — a  thing  fine,  tender,  touching  the 
stars!  That  was  what  love  might  be  to  him,  to 
Mazie  Wetherell,  what  it  could  never  be  to  Otto 
Brand. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  he  found  Mrs. 
Brand  worrying  about  her  waitress. 

"  I  guess  she  couldn't  get  back,  and  I've  got  a 
big  day's  work." 

"  I'll  go  and  look  her  up,"  Van  Alen  offered ;  but 
he  found  that  he  was  not  to  go  alone,  for  Otto  was 
waiting  for  him  at  the  gate. 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin*  else  to  do,"  the  boy  said ; 
"  everything  is  held  up  by  the  rain." 

220 


THE  CANOPY  BED 

It  was  when  they  came  to  the  little  stream  that 
Van  Alen  had  forded  the  night  before  that  they  saw 
Mazie  Wetherell. 

"  I  can't  get  across,"  she  called  from  the  other 
side. 

The  bridge,  which  had  been  covered  when  Van 
Alen  passed,  was  now  washed  away,  and  the  foam- 
ing brown  waters  overflowed  the  banks. 

"  I'll  carry  you  over,"  Otto  called,  and  straight- 
way he  waded  through  the  stream,  and  the  water 
came  above  his  high  boots  to  his  hips. 

He  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms  and  brought  her 
back,  with  her  bright  hair  fluttering  against  his 
lips,  and  Van  Alen,  raging  impotently,  stood  and 
watched  him. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Otto's  air  was  almost  in- 
sultingly triumphant  as  he  set  the  girl  on  her  feet 
and  smiled  down  at  her.  And  as  she  smiled  back, 
Van  Alen  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  them. 

Presently  he  heard  her  running  after  him  lightly 
over  the  sodden  ground. 

And  when  she  reached  his  side  she  said :  "  Your 
book  was  wonderful." 

"  But  he  carried  you  over  the  stream." 

Her  eyes  flashed  a  question,  then  blazed.  "  There, 
you've  come  back  to  it,"  she  said.  "  What  makes 
you?  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  carry  you  myself." 
221 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  Silly,"  she  said ;  "  any  man  could  carry  me 
across  the  stream — but  only  you  could  write  that 
chapter  in  the  middle  of  the  book." 

"  You  liked  it?  "  he  cried,  radiantly. 

"  Like  it?  "  she  asked.  "  I  read  it  once,  and  then 
I  read  it  again — on  my  knees." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  drop  away  breathless.  Be- 
hind them  Otto  Brand  tramped,  whistling;  but  he 
might  have  been  a  tree,  or  the  sky,  or  the  distant 
hills,  for  all  the  thought  they  took  of  him. 

"  I  wanted  to  beg  your  pardon,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"  for  what  I  said  the  other  day — it  is  a  great  thing 
to  write  a  book  like  that — greater  than  fighting  a 
battle  or  saving  a  life,  for  it  saves  people's  ideals ; 
perhaps  in  that  way  it  saves  their  souls." 

"  Then  I  may  sleep  in  the  canopy  bed?  "  His 
voice  was  calm,  but  inwardly  he  was  much  shaken 
by  her  emotion. 

Her  eyes,  as  she  turned  to  him,  had  in  them  the 
dawn  of  that  for  which  he  had  hoped. 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  quickly.  "You  are 

greater  than  your  grandfather — you  are "  She 

stopped  and  laughed  a  little,  and,  in  this  moment 
of  her  surrender,  her  beauty  shone  like  a  star. 

"  Oh,  little  great  man,"  she  said,  tremulously, 
"  your  head  touches  the  skies ! " 


222 


SANDWICH  JANE 

I 

"  No  man,"  said  Oliver  Lee,  "  should  earn  more 
than  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  After  that  he  gets — 
soft." 

"Soft  nothing!" 

Oliver  sat  on  a  box  in  front  of  the  post-office. 
He  was  lean  and  young  and  without  a  hat.  His 
bare  head  was  one  of  the  things  that  made  him 
unique.  The  other  men  within  doors  and  without 
wore  hats — broad  hats  that  shielded  them  from  the 
California  sun ;  or,  as  in  the  case  of  Atwood  Jones, 
who  came  from  the  city,  a  Panama  of  an  up-to-the- 
minute  model. 

But  Oliver's  blond  mane  waved  in  every  passing 
breeze.  It  was  only  when  he  rode  forth  on  his 
mysterious  journeys  that  he  crowned  himself  with 
a  Chinese  straw  helmet. 

Because  he  wore  no  hat  his  skin  was  tanned.  He 
had  blue  eyes  that  twinkled  and,  as  I  have  said,  a 
blond  mane. 

"Fifteen  dollars  a  week,"  he  reaffirmed,  "is 
enough." 

Fifteen  dollars  was  all  that  Oliver  earned.  He 
223 


was  secretary  to  an  incipient  oil  king.  As  the  oil 
king's  monarchy  was  largely  on  paper  lie  found  it 
hard  at  times  to  compass  even  the  fifteen  dollars 
that  went  to  his  secretary. 

The  other  men  scorned  Oliver's  point  of  view 
and  told  him  so.  They  were  a  rather  prosperous 
bunch,  all  except  Tommy  Drew,  who  dealt  in  a 
dilettante  fashion  in  insurance,  and  who  sat  at 
Oliver's  feet  and  worshiped  him. 

It  was  Saturday  and  some  of  the  men  had  drifted 
in  from  the  surrounding  ranches;  others  from  the 
cities,  from  the  mountains,  from  the  valleys,  from 
the  desert,  from  the  sea.  Tinkersfield  had  assumed 
a  sudden  importance  as  an  oil  town.  All  of  the 
men  had  business  connected  in  some  way  with  Tink- 
ersfield. And  all  of  them  earned  more  than  fifteen 
dollars  a  w. 

Therefore  they  disputed  Oliver's  statement.  "  If 
you  had  a  wife "  said  one. 

"Ah,"  said  Oliver,  "  if  I  had " 

"Ain't  you  got  any  ambition?"  Henry  Bittinger 
demanded.  Henry  was  pumping  out  oil  in  prodi- 
gious quantities.  He  had  bought  a  motor  car  and  a 
fur  coat.  It  was  too  hot  most  of  the  time  for  the 
coat,  but  the  car  stood  now  at  rest  across  the  road — 
long  and  lovely — much  more  of  an  aristocrat  than 
the  man  who  owned  it. 

"Ambition  for  what?"  Oliver  demanded. 
224. 


SANDWICH  JANE 

Henry's  eyes  went  to  the  pride  of  his  heart. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you'd  want  a  car." 

"  I'd  give,"  said  Oliver,  "  my  kingdom  for  a 
horse,  but  not  for  a  car." 

O-liver's  little  mare  stood  quite  happily  in  the 
shade;  she  was  slim  as  to  leg,  shining  as  to  coat, 
and  with  the  eyes  of  a  loving  woman. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  want  to  get  ahead,"  said 
Atwood  Jones,  who  sold  shoes  up  and  down  the 
coast.  He  was  a  junior  member  of  the  firm,  but 
still  liked  to  go  on  the  road.  He  liked  to  lounge 
like  this  in  front  of  the  post-of3.ce  and  smoke  in  the 
golden  air  with  a  lot  of  men  sitting  round.  At- 
wood had  been  raised  on  a  ranch.  He  had  listened 
to  the  call  of  the  city,  but  he  was  still  a  small-town 
man. 

"Ahead  of  what?  "  asked  Oliver. 

Atwood  was  vague.  He  felt  himself  a  rising  citi- 
zen. Some  day  he  expected  to  marry  and  set  his 
wife  up  in  a  mansion  in  San  Francisco,  with  sea- 
sons of  rest  and  recreation  at  Del  Monte  and  Coro- 
nado  and  the  East.  If  the  shoe  business  kept  to  the 
present  rate  of  prosperity  he  would  probably  have 
millions  to  squander  in  his  old  age. 

He  tried  to  say  something  of  this  to  O-liver. 

"Well,  will  you  be  any  happier?"  asked  the 
young  man  with  the  bare  head.  "I'll  wager  my 
korse  against  your  car  that  when  you're  drunk  with 

225 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

dollars  you'll  look  back  to  a  day  like  this  and  envy 
yourself.    It's  happiness  I'm  talking  about." 

"  Well,  are  you  happy?  "  Atwood  challenged. 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  the  young  man  lightly.  "  I 
have  enough  to  eat,  money  for  tobacco,  a  book  or 
two — an  audience.'7  He  waved  his  hand  to  include 
the  listening  group  and  smiled. 

It  was  O-liver's  lightness  which  gave  him  the 
whip  hand  in  an  argument.  They  were  most  of 
them  serious  men;  not  serious  in  a  Puritan  sense 
of  taking  thought  of  their  souls'  salvation  and  the 
world's  redemption,  but  serious  in  their  pursuit  of 
wealth.  They  had  to  be  rich.  If  they  weren't  they 
couldn't  marry,  or  if  they  were  married  they  had 
to  be  rich  so  that  their  wives  could  keep  up  with 
the  wives  of  the  other  fellows  who  were  getting 
rich.  They  had  to  have  cars  and  money  to  spend 
at  big  hotels  and  for  travel,  money  for  diamonds 
and  furs,  money  for  everything. 

But  here  was  O-liver  Lee,  who  said  lightly  that 
money  weighed  upon  him.  He  didn't  want  it. 
He'd  be  darned  if  he  wanted  it.  Money  brought 
burdens.  As  for  himself,  he'd  read  and  ride  Mary 
Pick. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Henry,  with  his  hands  folded 
across  his  stomach — Henry  had  grown  fat  riding  in 
his  car — "anyhow,  when  you  get  old  you'll  be 
sorry/' 

226 


SANDWICH  JANE 

"  I  shall  never  grow  old,"  said  O-liver,  and  stood 
up.  "  I  shall  be  young — till  I — die." 

They  laughed  at  him  outwardly,  but  in  their 
hearts  they  did  not  laugh.  They  could  not  think 
of  him  as  old.  They  felt  that  in  a  hundred  years 
he  would  still  be  strong  and  sure,  his  blond 
mane  untouched  by  gray,  his  clear  blue  eyes  un- 
blurred. 

Atwood  rounding  them  all  up  for  a  drink  found 
that  Oliver  wouldn't  drink. 

"Drank  too  much,  once  upon  a  time,"  he  con- 
fessed frankly.  "  But  111  give  you  a  toast." 

He  gave  it,  poised  on  his  box  like  a  young  god  on 
the  edge  of  the  world. 

"  Here's  to  poverty !  May  we  learn  to  love  her 
for  the  favors  she  denies !  " 

"  Queer  chap,"  said  Atwood  to  Henry  later. 

Henry  nodded.  "  He's  queer,  but  he's  great  com- 
pany. Always  has  a  crowd  round  him.  But  no 
ambition." 

"Pity,"  said  Atwood.  "How'd  he  get  that 
name — O-liver?  " 

"  One  of  the  fellows  got  gay  and  called  him 
'  Ollie.'  Lee  stopped  him.  '  My  name  is  Oliver  Lee. 
If  you  want  a  nickname  you  can  say  "O-liver." 
But  I'm  not  "  Ollie "  from  this  time  on,  under- 
stand? *  And  I'm  darned  if  the  fellow  didn't  back 
down.  There  was  something  about  O-liver  that 

227 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

would  have  made  anybody  back  down.  He  didn't 
have  a  gun ;  it  was  just  something  in  his  voice." 

"  Say,  he's  wasted,"  said  Atwood.  "A  man  with 
his  line  of  talk  might  be  President  of  the  United 
States." 

"  Sure  he  might,"  Henry  agreed.  "  I've  told  him 
a  lot  of  times  he's  throwing  away  his  chance." 

II 

The  office  of  the  incipient  oil  king  was  on  the 
main  street  of  the  straggling  town.  At  the  back 
there  was  a  window  which  gave  a  view  of  a  hill  or 
two  and  a  mountain  beyond.  The  mountain  stuck 
its  nose  into  the  clouds  and  was  whitecapped. 

It  was  this  view  at  the  back  which  O-liver  faced 
when  he  sat  at  his  machine.  When  he  rested  he 
liked  to  fix  his  eyes  on  that  white  mountain. 
O-liver  had  acquired  of  late  a  fashion  of  looking  up. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  ground.  He  did  not  care  to  remember  that 
time.  The  work  that  he  did  was  intermittent,  and 
between  his  industrious  spasms  he  read  a  book. 
He  had  a  shelf  at  hand  where  he  kept  certain  vol- 
umes— Walt  Whitman,  Vanity  Fair,  Austin  Dob- 
son,  Landor's  Imaginary  Conversations,  and  a 
rather  choice  collection  of  Old  Mission  literature. 
He  had  had  it  in  mind  that  he  might  some  day  write 
a  play  with  Santa  Barbara  as  a  background,  but  he. 

228 


SANDWICH  JANE 

had  stopped  after  the  first  act.  He  had  ridden 
down  one  night  and  had  reached  the  mission  at 
dawn.  The  gold  cross  had  flamed  as  the  sun  rose 
over  the  mountain.  After  that  it  had  seemed  some- 
how a  desecration  to  put  it  in  a  painted  scene. 
O-liver  had  rather  queer  ideas  as  to  the  sacredness 
of  certain  things. 

Tommy  Drew,  who  had  a  desk  in  the  same  office, 
read  Vanity  Fair  and  wanted  to  talk  about  it. 
"  Say,  I  don't  like  that  girl,  O-liver." 

"What  girl?" 

"  Becky." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Well,  she's  a  grafter.  And  her  husband  was 
a  poor  nut." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  was,"  said  O-liver. 

"  He  oughta  of  dragged  her  round  by  the  hair  of 
her  head." 

"  They  don't  do  it,  Tommy,"  O-liver  was  thought- 
ful. "After  all  a  woman's  a  woman.  It's  easier  to 
let  her  go." 

An  astute  observer  might  have  found  O-liver 
cynical  about  women.  If  he  said  nothing  against 
them  he  certainly  never  said  anything  for  them. 
And  he  kept  strictly  away  from  everything  feminine 
in  Tinkersfield,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  good 
looks  won  him  more  than  one  glance  from  sparkling 
eyes. 

229 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"He  acts  afraid  of  skirts,"  Henry  liad  said  to 
Tommy  on  one  occasion. 

"  He?  "  Tommy  was  scornful.  "  He  ain't  afraid 
of  anything ! " 

Henry  knew  it.  "  Maybe  it's  because  you  can't 
do  much  with  women  on  fifteen  a  week." 

"  Well,  I  guess  that's  so,"  said  Tommy,  who  made 
twenty  and  who  had  a  hopeless  passion. 

His  hopeless  passion  was  Jane.  Jane  lived  with 
her  mother  in  a  small  rose-bowered  bungalow  at  the 
edge  of  the  town.  She  and  her  mother  owned  the 
bungalow,  which  was  fortunate;  they  hadn't  a 
penny  for  rent.  Jane's  father  had  died  of  a  weak 
lung  and  the  failure  of  his  oil  well.  He  had  left 
the  two  women  without  an  income.  Jane's  mother 
was  delicate  and  Jane  couldn't  leave  her  to  go  out 
to  work.  So  Jane  dug  in  the  li^Te  garden,  and 
they  lived  largely  on  vegetables.  »She  sewed  for  the 
neighbors,  and  bought  medicine  and  now  and  then 
a  bit  of  meat.  She  was  young  and  strong  and  she 
had  wonderful  red  hair.  Tommy  thought  it  was 
the  most  beautiful  hair  in  the  world.  Jane  was  for 
him  a  sort  of  goddess  woman.  She  was,  he  felt, 
infinitely  above  him.  She  knew  a  great  deal  that 
he  didn't,  about  books  and  things — like  O-liver. 
She  sewed  for  his  mother,  and  that  was  the  way  he 
had  met  her.  He  would  go  over  and  sit  on  her 
front  steps  and  talk.  He  felt  that  she  treated  him 

230 


SANDWICH  JANE 

like  a  little  dog  that  she  wouldn't  harm,  but 
wouldn't  miss  if  it  went  away.  He  told  her  of 
Vanity  Fair  and  of  how  he  felt  about  Becky. 

"  If  she  had  been  content  to  earn  an  honest  liv- 
ing," Jane  stated  severely,  "  the  story  would  have 
had  a  different  ending." 

"  Well,  she  wanted  things,"  Tommy  said. 

"  Most  women  do."  Jane  jabbed  her  needle  into 
a  length  of  pink  gingham  which,  when  finished, 
would  be  rompers  for  a  youngster  across  the  street. 
"  I  do ;  and  I  intend  to  have  them." 

"  How?  "  asked  the  interested  Tommy. 

"  Work  for  them." 

"  Oliver  says  that  fifteen  dollars  a  week  is 
enough  for  anybody  to  earn." 

Jane  had  heard  of  Oliver,  Tommy  sang  his  con- 
stant praises. 

"  Why  fifteen?  " 

"After  that  you  get  soft" 

Jane  laid  down  the  length  of  pink  gingham  and 
looked  at  him.  She  hated  to  sew  on  pink;  it 
clashed  dreadfully  with  her  hair. 

"  I  should  say,"  she  stated  with  scorn,  "  that  your 
Oliver's  lazy." 

"  Xo,  he  isn't.  He  only  wants  enough  to  eat  and 
enough  to  smoke  and  enough  to  read." 

"That  sounds  all  right,  but  it  isn't  What's 
he  going  to  do  when  he's  old?  " 

231 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  He  ain't  ever  going  to  grow  old.  He  said  so, 
and  if  you'd  see  him  you'd  know." 

Jane  felt  within  her  the  stirring  of  curiosity. 
But  she  put  it  down  sternly.  She  had  no  time 
for  it. 

"  Tommy,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  thinking.  I've 
got  to  earn  more  money,  and  I  want  your  help." 

Tommy's  faithful  eyes  held  a  look  of  doglike 
affection. 

"  Oh,  if  I  can "  he  quavered. 

"  I've  got  to  get  ahead."  Jane  was  breathless. 
Her  eyes  shone. 

"  I've  got  to  get  ahead,  Tommy.  I  can't  live  all 
my  life  like  this."  She  held  up  the  pink  strip. 
"Even  if  I  am  a  woman,  there  ought  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  making  rompers  for  the  rest  of  my 
days." 

"  You  might,"  said  the  infatuated  Tommy, 
"  marry." 

"  Marry?    Marry  whom?  " 

Tommy  wished  that  he  might  shout  "  Me ! "  from 
the  housetops.  But  he  knew  the  futility  of  it. 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  she  said,  "  until  I  find 
somebody  different  from  anything  I've  ever  seen." 

Jane's  ideas  of  men  were  bounded  largely  by  the 
weakness  of  her  father  and  the  crudeness  of  men 
like  Henry  Bittinger,  Atwood  Jones  and  others  of 
their  kind.  She  didn't  consider  Tommy  at  all. 


SANDWICH  JANE 

He  was  a  nice  boy  and  a  faithful  friend.  His 
mother,  too,  was  a  faithful  friend.  She  classed 
them  together. 

Her  plan,  told  with  much  coming  and  going  of 
lovely  color,  was  this :  She  had  read  that  the  way 
to  make  money  was  to  find  the  thing  that  a  com- 
munity lacked  and  supply  it.  Considering  it  seri- 
ously she  had  decided  that  in  Tinkersfield  there  was 
need  of  good  food. 

"  There's  just  one  horrid  little  eating  house,"  she 
told  Tommy,  "  when  the  men  come  in  from  out  of 
town." 

"Nothing  fit  to  eat  either,"  Tommy  agreed; 
"  and  they  make  up  on  booze." 

She  nodded.  "  Tommy,"  she  said,  and  leaned 
toward  him,  "  I  had  thought  of  sandwiches — home- 
made bread  and  slices  of  ham — wrapped  in  waxed 
paper;  and  of  taking  them  down  and  selling  them 
in  front  of  the  post-office  on  Saturday  nights." 

Tommy's  eyes  bulged.  "You  take  them 
down?  " 

"  Why  not?    Any  work  is  honorable,  Tommy." 

Tommy  felt  that  it  wouldn't  be  a  goddess  rdle. 

"  I  can't  see  it."  The  red  crept  up  into  his  hon- 
est freckled  face.  "  You  know  the  kind  of  women 
that's  round  on  Saturday  nights." 

"  I  am  not  that  kind  of  woman."  She  was  sud- 
denly austere. 

233 


He  found  himself  stammering.  "I  didn't 
mean " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't.  But  it's  a  good  plan, 
Tommy.  Say  you  think  it's  a  good  plan." 

He  would  have  said  anything  to  please  her. 
"  Well,  you  might  try." 

The  next  day  he  found  himself  talking  it  over 
with  O-liver.  "  She  wants  to  sell  them  on  Satur- 
day nights." 

"  Tell  her,"  said  O-liver,  "  to  stay  at  home." 

"  But  she's  got  to  have  some  money." 

"  Money,"  said  O-liver,  "  is  the  root  of  evil.  You 
say  she  has  a  garden.  Let  her  live  on  leeks  and 
lettuce." 

"Leeks  and  lettuce?"  said  poor  Tommy,  who 
had  never  heard  of  leeks. 

"  Her  complexion  will  be  better,"  said  O-liver, 
"  and  her  peace  of  mind  great." 

"  Her  complexion  is  perfect,"  Tommy  told  him, 
"  and  she  isn't  the  peaceful  kind.  Her  hair  is  red." 

"  Red-haired  women  " — O-liver  had  his  eye  on 
Vanity  Fair — "red-haired  women  always  flaunt 
themselves." 

Tommy,  softening  O-liver's  words  a  bit,  gave 
them  in  the  form  of  advice  to  Jane:  "He  thinks 
you'd  better  live  on  leeks  and  lettuce  than  go  down- 
town like  that." 

Jane  gasped.  "Leeks  and  lettuce?  Me?  He 
234 


SANDWICH  JANE 

doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about!    And  any- 
how, what  can  you  expect  of  a  man  like  that?  " 


in 

A  week  later  Jane  in  a  white  shirt-waist  and 
white  apron  came  down  with  her  white-covered 
basket  into  the  glare  of  the  town's  white  lights. 
The  night  was  warm  and  she  wore  no  hat.  Her 
red  hair  was  swept  back  from  her  forehead  with  a 
droop  over  the  ears.  She  had  white  skin  and  strong 
white  teeth.  Her  eyes  were  as  gray  as  the  sea  on 
stormy  days.  Tommy  came  after  her  with  a  wooden 
box,  which  he  set  on  end,  and  she  placed  her  basket 
on  it.  The  principal  stores  of  the  small  town,  the 
one  hotel  and  the  post-office  were  connected  by  a 
covered  walk  which  formed  a  sort  of  arcade,  so  that 
the  men  lounging  against  doorways  or  tip-tilted  in 
chairs  seemed  in  a  sort  of  gallery  from  which  they 
surveyed  the  Saturday-night  crowd  which  paraded 
the  street. 

Jane  folded  'up  the  cloth  which  covered  her 
basket  and  displayed  her  wares.  "Don't  stick 
round,  Tommy,"  she  said.  "I  shall  do  better 
alone." 

But  as  she  raised  her  head  and  saw  the  eyes  of 
the  men  upon  her  a  rich  color  surged  into  her 
cheeks. 

235 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 
She  put  out  her  little  sign  bravely : 
HOME-MADE  SANDWICHES — TWENTY  CENTS 

With  a  sense  of  adventure  upon  them  the  men 
flocked  down  at  once.  They  bought  at  first  be- 
cause the  wares  were  offered  by  a  pretty  girl.  They 
came  back  to  buy  because  never  had  there  been  such 
sandwiches. 

Jane  had  improved  upon  her  first  idea.  There 
were  not  only  ham  sandwiches;  there  were  baked 
beans  between  brown  bread,  thin  slices  of  broiled 
bacon  in  hot  baking-powder  biscuit.  Henry  Bit- 
tinger  said  to  Atwood  Jones  afterward :  "  The  food 
was  so  good  that  if  she  had  been  as  ugly  as  sin  she'd 
have  got  away  with  it." 

"  She  isn't  ugly,"  said  Atwood,  and  had  a  fleeting 
moment  of  speculation  as  to  whether  Jane  with  her 
red  hair  would  fit  into  his  plutocratic  future. 

Jane  had  made  fifty  sandwiches.  She  sold  them 
all,  and  took  ten  dollars  home  with  her. 

"  I  shall  make  a  hundred  next  time,"  she  said  to 
Tommy,  whom  she  picked  up  on  the  way  back. 
"And — it  wasn't  so  dreadful,  Tommy." 

But  that  night  as  she  lay  in  bed  looking  out  to- 
ward the  mountain,  silver-tipped  in  the  moonlight, 
she  had  a  shivering  sense  of  the  eyes  of  some  of  the 
men — of  Tillotson,  who  kept  the  hotel,  and  of  others 
of  his  kind. 

236 


SANDWICH  JANE 

Oliver  had  stayed  at  home  that  Saturday  night 
to  write  a  certain  weekly  letter.  He  had  stayed 
at  home  also  because  he  didn't  approve  of  Jane. 

"  But  you  haven't  seen  her,'7  Tommy  protested. 

"  I  know  the  type." 

On  Sunday  morning  Tommy  brought  him  a 
baked-bean  sandwich.  "It  isn't  as  fresh  as  it 
might  be.  But  you  can  see  what  she's  giving  us/' 

There  were  months  of  Oliver's  life  which  had 
been  spent  with  a  grandmother  in  Boston.  His 
grandmother  had  made  brown  bread  and  she  had 
baked  beans.  And  now  as  he  ate  his  sandwich 
there  was  the  savor  of  all  the  gastronomic  memories 
of  a  healthy  and  happy  childhood. 

"  It's  delicious,"  he  said,  "  but  she'd  better  not 
mix  with  that  crowd." 

"  She  doesn't  mix,"  said  Tommy. 

"  She'll  have  to."  O-liver  had  in  mind  a  red- 
haired  woman,  raw-boned,  with  come-hither  eyes. 
Her  kind  was  not  uncommon.  Tommy's  infatua- 
tion would  of  course  elevate  her  to  a  pedestal. 

"  She's  going  to  make  a  hundred  sandwiches  next 
week,"  Tommy  vouchsafed. 

Oliver's  mind  could  scarcely  compass  one  hun- 
dred sandwiches.  "  She'd  better  stick  to  her  leeks 
and  lettuce." 

He  rode  away  the  next  Saturday  night.  It  was 
his  protest  against  the  interest  roused  in  the  com- 

237 


munity  by  this  Jane  who  sold  sandwiches.  He 
heard  of  her  everywhere.  Some  of  the  men  were 
respectful  and  some  were  not.  It  depended  largely 
on  the  nature  of  the  particular  male. 

Oliver  rode  Mary  Pick  and  wore  his  straw  hel- 
met. His  way  led  down  into  the  valley  and  up 
again  and  down,  until  at  last  he  came  to  the  sea. 
Then  he  followed  the  water's  edge,  letting  Mary 
Pick  dance  now  and  then  on  the  hard  beach,  with 
the  waves  curling  up  like  cream,  and  beyond  the 
waves  a  stretch  of  pale  azure  to  the  horizon. 

He  reached  finally  a  fantastic  settlement. 
Against  the  sky  towered  walls  which  might  have 
inclosed  an  ancient  city — walls  built  of  cloth  and 
wood  instead  of  stone.  Beyond  these  walls  were 
thatched  cottages  which  had  no  occupants ;  a  quaint 
church  which  had  no  congregation ;  a  Greek  temple 
which  had  no  vestals,  no  sacred  fire,  no  altar; 
hedges  which  had  no  roots.  O-liver  weighing  the 
hollowness  of  it  all  had  thought  whimsically  of  an 
old  nursery  rime: 

The  first  sent  a  goose  without  a  bone ; 
The  second  sent  a  cherry  without  a  stone ; 
The  third  sent  a  blanket  without  a  thread ; 
The  fourth  sent  a  book  that  no  man  could  read. 

At  the  end  of  the  settlement  was  a  vast  studio 
lighted  by  a  glass  roof.  Entering,  O-liver  was 

238 


SANDWICH  JANE 

transported  at  once  to  the  dance  hall  on  the  Bar- 
bary  Coast — a  great  room  with  a  bar  at  one  end, 
the  musicians  on  a  platform  at  the  other,  a  stair- 
way leading  upward.  Groups  of  people  waited  for 
a  signal  to  dance,  to  drink,  to  act  whatever  part 
had  been  assigned  them — people  with  unearthly 
pink  complexions.  The  heat  was  intense. 

With  her  face  upturned  to  the  director,  who  was 
mounted  on  a  chair,  stood  a  childish  creature  who 
was  pinker,  if  possible,  than  the  rest.  She  had 
fluffy  hair  of  pale  gold.  She  ran  up  the  stairway 
presently,  and  the  light  was  turned  on  her.  It 
made  of  her  fluffy  hair  a  halo.  In  the  strong  glare 
everything  about  her  was  overemphasized,  but 
Oliver  knew  that  when  she  showed  up  on  the  screen 
she  would  be  entrancing. 

He  had  first  seen  her  on  the  screen.  He  had  met 
her  afterward  at  her  hotel.  She  had  seemed  as  in- 
genuous as  the  parts  she  played.  Perhaps  she  was. 
He  could  never  be  quite  sure.  Perhaps  the  money 
she  had  made  afterward  had  spoiled  her.  She  had 
jumped  from  fifty  dollars  a  week  to  a  thousand. 
^  After  that  O-liver  could  give  her  nothing.  He 
had  an  allowance  from  his  mother  of  three  thou- 
sand a  year.  Fluffy  Hair  made  as  much  as  that  in 
three  weeks.  Where  he  had  been  king  of  his  own 
domain  he  became  a  sort  of  gentleman  footman, 
carrying  her  sables  and  her  satchels.  But  that  was 

239 


not  the  worst  of  it.  He  found  that  they  had  not  * 
taste  in  common.  She  laughed  at  his  books,  at  k5s 
love  of  sea  and  sky.  She  even  laughed  at  his  Mary 
Pick,  whose  name  suggested  a  hated  rival. 

And  so  he  left  her — laughing. 

A  certain  sense  of  responsibility,  however,  took 
him  to  her  once  a  month,  and  a  letter  went  to  her 
every  week.  She  was  his  wife.  He  continued  in 
a  sense  to  watch  over  her.  Yet  she  resented  his 
watching. 

From  her  stairway  she  had  seen  him,  and  when  a 
rest  was  granted  she  came  down  to  him. 

"  I'll  be  through  presently,"  she  said.  "  We  can 
go  to  my  hotel." 

Her  rooms  in  the  hotel  overlooked  the  sea. 
There  was  a  balcony,  and  they  sat  on  it  in  long 
lazy  chairs  and  had  iced  things  to  drink. 

O-liver  drank  lemonade.  His  wife  had  some- 
thing stronger. 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  she  said ;  "  it's  a  part  of 
the  doctor's  prescription." 

She  had  removed  the  pink  from  her  face,  and  he 
saw  that  she  was  pale. 

"You  are  working  too  hard,"  he  told  her. 
"  You'd  better  take  a  month  in  the  desert,  out  of 
doors." 

She  shivered.  She  hated  the  out-of-doors  that 
he  raved  about.  They  had  spent  their  honeymoon 

240 


SANDWICH  JANE 

in  a  tent.  She  had  been  wild  to  get  back  to  civili- 
zation. It  had  been  their  first  moment  of  dis- 
illusion. 

She  showed  him  before  he  went  some  of  the 
things  she  had  acquired  since  kis  last  visit — an 
ermine  coat,  a  string  of  pearls. 

"  I  saw  them  in  your  last  picture,"  he  told  her. 
"  You  really  visit  me  by  proxy.  I  find  your  name 
on  the  boards,  and  walk  in  with  a  lot  of  other  men 
and  look  at  you.  And  not  one  of  them  dreams  that 
I've  ever  seen  the  woman  on  the  screen." 

"  Well,  they  wouldn't  of  course."  She  had  never 
taken  his  name.  Her  own  was  too  valuable. 

When  he  told  her  good-bye  he  asked  a  question : 
"Are  you  happy?  " 

For  a  moment  her  face  clouded.  "  I'm  not  quite 
sure.  Is  anybody?  But  I  like  the  way  I  am  liv- 
ing, Ollie." 

He  had  a  sense  of  relief.  "  So  do  I,"  ke  said. 
"  I  earn  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  The  papers  say 
that  you  earn  fifteen  hundred — and  you're  not  quite 
twenty." 

"There, isn't  a  man  in  this  hotel  that  makes  so 
much,"  she  told  him  complacently.  "  The  women 
try  to  snub  me,  but  they  can't.  Money  talks." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  in  her  case  it  shouted.  As 
he  rode  back  on  Mary  Pick  he  thought  seriously  of 
his  fifteen  dollars  a  week  and  her  fifteen  hundred ; 

241 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

and  of  how  little  either  weighed  in  the  balance  of 
happiness. 

IV 

It  was  not  until  the  following  Saturday  that  he 
saw  Jane.  She  had  made  two  hundred  sandwiches. 
She  had  got  Tommy's  mother  to  help  her.  She  had 
invented  new  combinations,  always  holding  to  the 
idea  of  satisfying  the  substantial  appetites  of  men. 

There  would  be  no  use,  she  argued,  in  offering 
five-o'clock-tea  combinations. 

She  was  very  busy  and  very  happy  and  very 
hopeful. 

"  If  this  keeps  up,"  she  told  her  mother,  "  I  shall 
rent  a  little  shop  and  sell  them  over  the  counter." 

Her  mother  had  an  invalid's  pessimism.  "  They 
may  tire  of  them." 

They  were  not  yet  tired.  They  gave  Jane  and 
her  basket  vociferous  greeting,  crowding  round  her 
and  buying  eagerly.  Atwood  and  Henry  having 
placed  orders  hung  back,  content  to  wait  for  a  later 
\noment  when  she  might  have  leisure  to  talk  to 
them. 

Tommy  helped  Jane  to  hand  out  sandwiches  and 
make  change.  He  felt  like  the  faithful  squire  of  a 
great  lady.  He  had  read  much  romantic  literature, 
and  he  served  as  well  if  not  as  picturesquely  as  a 
page  in  doublet  and  hose. 

242 


SANDWICH  JANE 

So  O-liver  saw  them.  He  had  been  riding  all  the 
afternoon  on  Mary  Pick.  He  had  gone  up  into  the 
Canon  of  the  Honey  Pots.  No  one  knew  it  by  that 
name  but  O-liver,  but  at  all  the  houses  one  could 
buy  honey.  Up  and  down  the  road  were  little 
stands  on  which  were  set  forth  glasses  and  jars  of 
amber  sweet.  The  bees  flashed  like  motes  in  the 
sunlight,  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  which  yielded  their  largess  to  the 
marauders. 

It  was  dark  when  he  rode  down  toward  the  town. 
It  lay  before  him,  all  twinkling  lights.  Above  it 
hung  a  thin  moon  and  countless  stars.  It  might 
have  been  a  fairy  town  under  the  kindly  cover  of 
the  night. 

But  when  he  reached  the  central  square  the  illu- 
sion ceased.  It  was  what  men  had  made  it — sor- 
did, cheap.  He  stopped  Mary  Pick  under  a  pepper 
tree  and  surveyed  the  scene. 

Jane  and  her  basket  were  the  center  of  an  ex- 
cited group.  She  had  almost  reached  the  end  of 
her  supplies,  and  some  one  had  suggested  auction- 
ing off  the  remainder.  Jane  had  protested,  but  her 
protests  had  not  availed.  She  had  turned  to 
Tommy  for  help,  to  Henry,  to  Atwood.  They  ha  . 
done  their  best.  But  the  man  who  led  the  crowd 
had  an  object  in  Ms  leadership.  It  was  Tillotson 
of  the  little  hotel — red-faced,  whisky-soaked. 

243 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  Sandwich.  Jane,  Sandwich  Jane !  "  he  shouted. 
"  That's  the  name  for  her,  boys." 

And  they  took  it  up  and  shouted  "  Sandwich 
Jane!" 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Oliver  stopped  under 
the  pepper  tree.  The  bright  light  fell  directly  on 
Jane's  distressed  face.  He  saw  the  swept-back 
brightness  of  her  hair,  her  clear-cut  profile,  her 
white  skin,  her  white  teeth.  But  he  saw  more  than 
this.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  she's  a  lady !  " 

If  he  had  been  talking  to  the  men  he  would  have 
said  "  Gosh ! "  It  was  only  when  he  was  alone 
that  he  permitted  himself  the  indulgence  of  more 
formal  language. 

That  Jane  was  harried  he  could  see.  And  sud- 
denly he  rode  forward  on  Mary  Pick. 

The  crowd  made  way  for  frfm  expectantly. 
There  were  always  interesting  developments  when 
O-liver  was  on  the  scene. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  let  the  lady  speak  for 
herself.  I  am  not  sure  what  you  are  trying  to  do, 
but  it  is  evidently  something  she  doesn't  want 
done." 

Jane  flashed  a  grateful  glance  up  at  him.  He 
was  the  unknown  knight  throwing  down  the  gaunt- 
let in  her  defense.  He  was  different  from  the 
others — his  voice  was  different. 

244 


SANDWICH  JANE 

"  They  want  to  auction  off  my  sandwiches,"  she 
explained,  "  and  they  won't  listen." 

"  I'm  sure  they  will  listen."  O-liver  on  Mary 
Pick,  with  his  hat  off  and  his  mane  tossed  back, 
might  have  been  Henry  of  the  white  plumes.  "  Of 
course  they'll  listen." 

And  they  did! 

Jane  stood  on  her  box  and  addressed  them. 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  any  more  for  my  sand- 
wiches than  they  are  worth,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"  I  make  good  ones,  and  I  sell  them  for  twenty 
cents  because  they  are  the  best  of  their  kind.  I  am 
glad  you  like  them.  I  want  to  earn  my  living  and 
my  mother's.  She  is  sick,  and  I  have  to  stay  at 
home  with  her.  And  I  don't  mind  being  called 
*  Sandwich  Jane/  It's  a  good  name  and  I  shall  use 
it  in  my  business.  But  I  don't  like  being  treated 
as  you  have  treated  me  to-night.  If  it  happens 
again  I  shall  have  to  stop  selling  sandwiches;  and 
I'd  be  sorry  to  have  that  happen,  and  I  hope  you'd 
be  Rorry  too." 

Her  little  speech  was  over.  She  stepped  down 
composedly  from  the  box,  folded  her  cloth  and 
picked  up  her  basket.  She  said  "  Thank  you  "  to 
O-liver,  "  Come  on  "  to  Tommy,  and  walked  from 
among  them  with  her  light  step  and  free  carriage ; 
and  they  stared  after  her. 

O-liver  sitting  later  in  front  of  the  post-office 
245 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

with  his  satellites  round  him  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  praise  of  Jane. 

"  She's  made  a  hit,"  Atwood  said  earnestly. 
"When  a  woman  talks  like  that  it's  the  straight 
goods." 

Henry  agreed.  "  She's  got  grit.  It's  her  kind 
that  get  ahead.  But  it's  a  pity  that  she's  got  to 
work  to  make  a  living." 

Atwood,  too,  thought  it  was  a  pity.  And  pres- 
ently he  and  Henry  fell  into  silence  as  they  fitted 
Jane  into  various  dreams.  Atwood's  dream  had  to 
do  with  a  mansion  high  on  Frisco's  hills.  But 
Henry  saw  her  beside  him  in  his  long  and  lovely 
car.  He  saw  her,  too,  in  a  fur  coat. 


V 

"  I  feel,"  said  Jane,  "  like  a  murderer."  Tommy 
and  O-liver  had  stopped  at  her  front  gate  to  leave 
her  some  books. 

"  Why?  "    It  was  O-liver  who  asked  it. 

"  Come  and  see."  She  led  them  round  the  house. 
Death  and  destruction  reigned. 

"  I  poured  gasoline  into  the  ants'  nests  and  set 
them  on  fire — and  now  look  at  them !  " 

There  were  a  few  survivors  toiling  among  the 
ruins. 

"  They  are  taking  out  the  dead  bodies,"  Jane  ex- 
246 


SANDWICH  JANE 

plained.     "  It's   so   human   that   it's   tragic.    Ill 
never  do  it  again." 

"  You  can't  let  them  eat  you  up." 

"  I  know.  It's  one  of  the  puzzles."  She  sat 
looking  down  at  them.  "  How  busy  they  are ! " 

"  Too  busy,"  Oliver  stated.  "  They  are  worse 
than  bees.  There  are  at  least  some  drones  in  the 
hive." 

"  Poor  drones,"  said  Jane. 

"  Why?  "  quickly. 

"  To  miss  the  best." 

"  Is  work  the  best?  " 

She  said  "Yes,"  adding  after  a  little:  "I  don't 
just  mean  making  sandwiches.  That's  just  a  be- 
ginning. There's  everything  ahead." 

She  said  it  as  if  the  world  were  hers.  Oliver,  in 
spite  of  himself,  was  thrilled.  "  How  do  you  know 
that  everything  is  ahead?" 

"  I  shall  make  it  come  " — securely. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  while ;  then  Oliver  said : 
"  I  have  brought  you  a  book." 

It  was  an  old  copy  of  Punch. 

"  I  shall  like  it,"  she  said.  "  Sometimes  the 
evenings  are  dull  when  my  work  is  over." 

"  Dullness  comes  for  me  when  work  begins." 

Her  straight  gaze  met  his.  "  You  say  that  with 
your  lips ;  you  don't  mean  it." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 
247 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

"I'm  not  sure  how  I  know.  But  you  haven't 
found  the  thing  yet  that  you  like — the  incentive." 

"  Tommy  wants  me  to  go  into  politics.  He  and 
Henry  Bittinger.  Henry  says  I  ought  to  be  Presi- 
dent." O-liver  chuckled. 

But  she  took  it  seriously.  "  Why  not?  You've 
the  brains  and  the  magnetism.  Can't  you  see  how 
the  crowd  draws  to  you  on  Saturday  nights?  " 

"  Like  bees  round  a  honey  pot?  Yes."  His  face 
grew  suddenly  stern.  "But  so  will  mosquitoes 
buzz  round  a  stagnant  pool." 

"  You're  not  a  stagnant  pool  and  you  know  it." 

"  What  am  I?  " 

She  made  a  sudden  gesture  as  if  she  gave  him  up. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  you  are  like  the  sea — on  a  lazy 
day — with  a  storm  brewing." 

He  wondered  as  he  went  home — what  storm? 

He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  Jane  since  that  Sat- 
urday night  when  he  had  championed  her  cause. 
It  had  been  fall  then,  with  the  hills  brown  and  the 
berries  red  on  the  pepper  trees.  It  was  spring  now, 
with  all  the  world  green  and  growing. 

She  had  spoken  of  him  to  Tommy,  and  Tommy 
had  been  a  faithful  go-between.  He  had  played 
upon  their  mutual  love  of  books.  At  first  O-liver 
had  sent  her  books,  then  he  had  taken  them.  He 
had  met  her  mother,  had  seen  her  in  her  home  doing 
feminine  things,  sewing  on  lengths  of  pink  and 

248 


SANDWICH  JANE 

blue — filling  the  vases  with  the  flowers  that  he 
brought. 

And  as  they  had  met  and  talked  his  veins  had 
been  filled  with  new  wine.  He  had  never  known 
intimately  such  a  woman.  His  mother  trans- 
planted from  the  East  by  her  marriage  to  a  Western 
man  had  turned  her  eyes  always  backward.  Her 
son  had  been  born  in  the  East,  he  had  spent  his 
holidays  and  vacations  with  his  Eastern  relatives. 
He  had  gone  to  an  Eastern  school  to  prepare  for  an 
Eastern  college.  Except  for  this  one  obsession 
with  regard  to  her  son's  education  his  mother  was 
self-centered.  She  was  an  idolized  wife,  a  discon- 
tented woman — she  had  shown  O-liver  no  heights 
to  which  to  aspire. 

And  so  he  had  not  aspired.  He  had  spent  his 
days  in  what  might  be  termed,  biblically,  riotous 
living.  His  mother  had  hoped  for  an  aristocratic 
and  Eastern  marriage.  When  he  married  Fluffy 
Hair  she  had  allowed  him  three  thousand  a  year 
and  had  asked  him  not  to  bring  his  wife  to  see  her. 
His  father  had  refused  to  give  him  a  penny. 
Oliver's  wild  oats  and  wilfulness  cut  him  off,  he 
ruled,  from  parental  consideration.  "  You  are  not 
my  son,"  he  had  said  sternly.  "If  the  time  ever 
comes  when  you  can  say  you  are  sorry,  I'll  see  you." 

O-liver  having  married  Fluffy  Hair  had  found 
her  also  self-centered — not  a  lady  like  his  mother, 

249 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

but  fundamentally  of  the  same  type.  Neither  of 
them  had  made  him  feel  that  he  might  be  more 
than  he  was.  They  had  always  shrunk  him  to  their 
own  somewhat  small  patterns. 

Jane's  philosophy  came  to  him  therefore  like  a 
long-withheld  stimulant.  "You  might  be  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States." 

When  Henry  or  Atwood  or  Tommy  had  said  it  to 
him  he  had  laughed.  When  Jane  said  it  he  did  not 
laugh. 

VI 

And  so  it  came  about  that  one  day  he  rose  and 
went  to  his  father.  And  he  said :  "  Dad,  will  you 
kiU  the  fatted  calf?  " 

His  father  lived  in  a  great  Tudor  house  which 
gave  the  effect  of  age  but  was  not  old.  It  had  a 
minstrels'  gallery,  a  big  hall  and  a  little  hall, 
mullioned  windows  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  It  had 
been  built  because  of  a  whim  of  his  wife's.  But 
Oliver's  father  in  the  ten  years  he  had  lived  in  it 
had  learned  to  love  it.  But  more  than  he  loved 
the  house  he  loved  the  hills  that  sloped  away  from 
it,  the  mountains  that  towered  above  it,  the  sea 
that  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

"  It  is  God's  country,"  he  would  say  with  long- 
drawn  breath.  He  had  been  born  and  bred  in  this 
golden  West.  All  the  passion  he  might  have  given 

250 


SANDWICH  JANE 

to  his  alien  wife  and  alien  son  was  lavished  on  this 
land  which  was  bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of  his 
flesh. 

And  now  his  son  had  ridden  up  to  him  over  those 
low  hills  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  and  had  said : 
'•  Father,  I  have  sinned." 

Oliver  had  not  put  it  scripturally.  He  had  said : 
"  I'm  sorry,  dad.  You  said  I  needn't  come  back 
until  I  admitted  the  husks  and  swine." 

There  was  a  light  on  the  fine  face  of  the  older 
man.  "  Oliver,  I  never  hoped  to  hear  you  say  it." 
His  hand  dropped  lightly  on  the  boy's  shoulders. 
"  My  son  which  was  dead  is  alive  again?  " 

"  Yes,  dad." 

"  What  brought  you  to  life?  " 

"A  woman." 

The  hand  dropped.     "  Not " 

"  Not  my  wife.  Put  your  hand  back,  dad. 
Another  woman." 

He  sat  down  beside  his  father  on  the  terrace. 
The  sea  far  below  them  was  sapphire,  the  cliffs  pink 
with  moss — gorgeous  color.  Orange  umbrellas 
dotted  the  distant  beach. 

"Your  mother  is  down  there,"  Jason  Lee  said. 
"  Sun  baths  and  all  that.  You  said  there  was  an- 
other woman,  Oliver." 

"  Yes."  Quite  simply  and  honestly  he  told  him 
251 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

about  Sandwich  Jane.  "  She's  made  me  see 
things." 

"What  things?" 

"  Well,  she  thinks  I've  got  it  in  me  to  get  any- 
where. She  insists  that  if  I'd  put  my  heart  into  it 
I  might  be — President." 

One  saw  their  likeness  to  each  other  in  their 
twinkling  eyes! 

"  She  says  that  men  follow  me ;  and  they  do.  I've 
found  that  out  since  I  went  to  Tinkersfield.  She 
wants  me  to  go  into  politics — there's  a  gang  down 
there  that  rules  the  town — rotten  crowd.  It  would 
be  some  fight  if  I  did." 

His  father  was  interested  at  once.  "  It  was  what 
I  wanted — when  I  was  young — politics — clean 
politics,  with  a  chance  at  statesmanship.  Yes,  I 
wanted  it.  But  your  mother  wanted — money." 

"  Money  hasn't  any  meaning  to  me  now,  dad.  If 
I  slaved  until  I  dropped  I  couldn't  make  fifteen 
hundred  a  week." 

"  Does — your  wife  make  that  now?  " 

"  Yes.     She's  making  it  and  spending  it,  I  fancy." 

Silence.  Then:  "What  of  this — other  woman. 
What  are  you  going  to  40  about  her?  " 

O-liver  leaned  forward,  speaking  earnestly.  "  I 
love  her.  But  I'm  not  free.  It's  all  a  muddle." 

"  Does  she  know  you're  married?  " 

"  No.  I've  got  to  tell  her.  But  I'll  lose  her  if  I 
252 


SANDWICH  JANE 

do.  Her  comradeship,  I  mean.  And  I  don't  want 
to  give  it  up." 

"  There  is  of  course  a  solution." 

"What  solution?" 

"  Divorce." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  solution  for  Jane.  She's  not 
that  kind.  Marriage  with  her  means  till  death 
parts.  I'll  have  to  lose  her.  But  it  hurts." 


vn 

It  was  when  Jane  rented  an  empty  room  fronting 
on  the  arcade  and  set  up  a  sandwich  shop  that 
Tillotson  saw  how  serious  the  thing  was  going  to  be. 

He  had  had  all  the  restaurant  and  hotel  trade. 
Men  coming  up  in  motors  or  on  horseback,  dusty 
and  tired,  had  eaten  and  drunk  at  his  squalid  tables, 
swearing  at  the  food  but  unable  to  get  anything 
better.  And  now  here  was  a  woman  who  covered 
her  counters  with  snowy  oilcloth — who  had  shining 
urns  of  coffee,  delectable  pots  of  baked  beans,  who 
put  up  in  neat  boxes  lunches  that  made  men  rush 
back  for  more  and  more  and  more — and  whose 
sandwiches  were  the  talk  of  the  coast ! 

It  had  to  be  stopped. 

The  only  way  to  stop  it  was  to  make  it  uncom- 
fortable for  Jane.  There  were  many  ways  in  which 
the  thing  could  be  done — by  small  and  subtle  perse- 

253 


TEE  GA7  COCKADE 

cutions,  by  insinuations,  by  words  bandied  from 
one  man's  evil  mouth  to  another.  Tillotson  had 
done  the  thing  before.  But  he  found  as  the  days 
went  on  that  he  had  not  before  had  a  Jane  to  deal 
with.  She  was  linked  in  the  minds  of  most  of  the 
men  with  a  whiteness  like  that  of  her  own  spotless 
shop. 

Gradually  Jane  became  aware  of  a  sinister  under- 
current. She  found  herself  dealing  with  forces 
that  threatened  her.  There  were  men  who  came 
into  her  shop  to  buy,  and  who  stayed  to  say  things 
that  set  her  cheeks  flaming.  She  mentioned  none 
of  these  things  to  Henry  or  Atwood  or  Tommy.  But 
she  spoke  once  to  O-liver. 

"Tillotson  must  be  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Two 
drunken  loafers  stumbled  in  the  other  day,  straight 
from  the  hotel.  And  when  I  telephoned  to  Tillot- 
son to  come  and  get  them  he  laughed  at  me." 

Tillotson  was  the  sheriff.  It  was  an  office  which 
he  did  not  honor.  In  a  month  or  two  his  term 
would  be  up.  O-liver  riding  alone  into  the  moun- 
tains stated  the  solution :  "  I've  got  to  beat  Tillot- 
son." 

But  first  he  had  things  to  say  to  Jane.  Since  his 
talk  with  his  father  ke  had  known  that  it  must 
come.  He  had  stayed  away  from  her  as  much  as 
possible.  It  had  not  been  a  conspicuous  with- 
drawal, for  she  was  very  busy  and  had  little  time 

264 


for  him.  Tommy's  mother  kept  her  little  home  in 
order  and  looked  after  the  invalid,  so  that  Jane 
could  give  undivided  attention  to  her  growing  busi- 
ness. Oliver  saw  her  most  often  at  the  shop,  when 
he  stopped  in  for  a  pot  of  beans — eating  them  on 
the  spot  and  discoursing  on  many  things. 

"  My  Boston  grandmother  baked  beans  like  this," 
he  told  her  on  one  occasion.  "  She  was  a  great 
little  woman,  Jane,  as  essentially  of  the  East  as 
you  are  of  the  West.  She  held  to  the  traditions  of 
the  past ;  you  are  blazing  new  ways  for  women,  sell- 
ing sandwiches  in  the  market-place.  By  Jove,  it 
was  superb  the  way  you  did  it,  Jane !  " 

She  was  always  in  a  glow  when  he  left  her.  Here 
was  a  man  different  from  her  father,  different  from 
Henry  Bittinger  and  Atwood  Jones.  She  smiled  a 
little  as  she  thought  of  Atwood.  He  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him.  He  had  told  her  of  the  things  he  had 
ahead  of  him  that  he  wanted  her  to  share.  And  he 
had  been  much  downcast  when  she  had  refused  him. 
She  had,  he  felt,  smudged  the  brightness  of  his 
splendid  future.  He  couldn't  understand  a  woman 
throwing  away  a  thing  like  that. 

But  he  bore  her  no  grudge  and  was  still  her 
friend.  Henry,  too,  was  her  friend.  He  had  not 
yet  tried  his  fate  with  Jane,  but  he  still  dreamed  of 
her  as  lovely  in  his  long  car  and  a  fur  coat.  And 
he  hoped  to  make  his  dreams  come  true. 

265 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Tommy  had  set  aside  all  selfish  hopes.  He  had  a 
feeling  that  Jane  liked  O-liver.  He  loved  them 
both.  If  he  could  not  have  Jane  he  wanted  O-liver 
to  have  her.  He  kept  a  wary  eye  therefore  on 
Henry  and  Atwood. 

It  was  Tommy  who  found  out  first  about  Fluffy 
Hair.  She  had  never  cared  to  have  the  world  know 
of  her  marriage.  She  had  felt  that  those  who  loved 
her  on  the  screen  would  prefer  her  fancy  free.  But 
it  was  known  at  the  studio,  and  some  one  drifting 
up  to  Tinkersfield  recognized  O-liver  and  told 
Tommy. 

Tommy  for  once  in  his  life  was  stern.  "  He 
oughta  of  told  Jane.  Somebody's  got  to  tell  her." 

So  the  next  day  he  took  it  on  himself — feeling  a 
traitor  to  his  friend. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  sitting  on  a  high  stool  in  her 
little  sandwich  shop — "  Jane,  O-liver's  married." 

Jane  on  the  other  side  of  the  spotless  counter 
gave  him  her  earnest  glance.  "  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  he 
told  me." 

"  He  did?  Well,  I'm  glad.  It  wasn't  a  thing  to 
keep,  was  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jane ;  "  it  wasn't.  But  you  mustn't 
blame  him,  Tommy;  and  now  that  we  both  know, 
everything  is  all  right,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  Tommy  agreed ;  "  if  Tillotson  doesn't  get 
hold  of  it." 

256 


SANDWICH  JANE 

For  it  had  been  decided  that  Oliver  was  to  run 
against  Tillotson  in  the  next  election,  and  beat  him 
if  he  could. 

O-liver  had  told  Jane  about  his  marriage  on  tie 
night  before  Tommy  came  to  her.  He  had  asked 
her  to  ride  with  him.  "  If  you'll  go  this  afternoon 
at  four  you  shall  have  Mary  Pick,  and  I'll  take 
Tommy's  horse." 

They  had  carried  their  lunch  with  them  and  had 
eaten  it  at  sunset  in  a  lovely  spot  where  the  caflon 
opened  out  to  show  a  shining  yellow  stretch  of 
sea,  with  the  hills  like  black  serpents  running  into 
it. 

Yet  it  was  dark,  with  the  stars  above  them  and 
the  sea  a  faint  gray  below,  before  O-liver  said  to 
her  what  he  had  brought  her  there  to  say. 

He  told  her  of  his  father  and  mother.  Of  Fluffy 
Hair. 

"  I  waked  up  at  last  to  the  fact  that  I  was  letting 
two  women  support  me.  So  I  came  here  and  began 
to  work  at  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  And  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  respected  myself — and  was  con- 
tent. And  then  I  met  you  and  saw  things  ahead. 
You  made  me  see  them." 

He  turned  toward  her  in  the  dark.  "  Jane,  I'm 
finding  that  I  love  you — mightily."  He  tried  to 
speak  lightly.  "And  I'm  not  free.  And  because  I 
lore  you  I've  got  to  keep  away.  But  I  want  you  to 

267 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

understand  that  my  friendship  is  the  same — that  it 
will  always  be  the  same.  But  I've  got  to  keep 
away." 

She  was  very  honest  about  it.  "  I  didn't  dream 
that  you  felt  like  that — about  me." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't.  That's  a  part  of  your 
splendidness.  Never  taking  anything  to  yourself. 
Jane,  will  you  believe  this — that  what  I  may  be 
hereafter  will  be  because  of  you?  If  I  ever  do  a 
big  thing  or  a  fine  thing  it  will  be  because  I  came 
upon  you  that  night  with  your  head  high  and  that 
rabble  round  you.  You  were  light  shining  into  the 
darkness  of  Tinkersfield.  Jove,  I  wish  I  were  a 
painter  to  put  you  on  canvas  as  you  were  that 
night!" 

They  had  ridden  down  later  under  the  stars,  and 
as  they  had  stood  for  a  moment  overlooking  the 
lights  of  the  little  town  Oliver  had  said :  "  I  make 
my  big  speech  to-morrow  night  to  beat  Tillotson. 
I  want  you  to  be  there.  Will  you?  If  I  know  you 
are  there  somewhere  in  the  dark  I  shall  pour  out 
my  soul — to  you." 

Was  it  any  wonder  that  Jane,  talking  to  Tommy 
the  next  morning  about  O-liver,  felt  her  pulses 
pounding,  her  cheeks  burning?  She  had  lain  awake 
all  night  thinking  of  the  things  he  had  said  to  her. 
It  seemed  a  very  big  and  wonderful  thing  that  a 
man  could  love  her  like  that.  As  toward  morning 

258 


SANDWICH  JANE 

the  moonlight  streamed  in  and  she  still  lay  awake 
she  permitted  herself  to  let  her  mind  dwell  for  a 
moment  on  what  her  future  might  mean  if  he  were 
in  it.  She  was  too  busy  and  healthy  to  indulge  in 
useless  regrets.  But  she  knew  in  that  moment  in 
the  moonlight  if  he  was  not  to  be  in  her  future  no 
other  man  would  ever  be. 


vm 

Oliver's  speech  was  made  in  the  open.  There 
was  a  baseball  park  in  Tinkersfield,  bounded  at  the 
west  end  by  a  grove  of  eucalyptus.  With  this  grove 
as  a  background  a  platform  had  been  erected. 
From  the  platform  the  rival  candidates  would 
speak.  At  this  time  of  the  year  it  would  be  day- 
light when  the  meeting  opened.  Tillotson  was  not 
to  speak  for  himself.  He  had  brought  a  man  down 
from  San  Francisco,  a  big  politician  with  an  oily 
tongue.  Oliver  would  of  course  present  his  own 
case.  The  thing,  as  Atwood  told  Henry,  promised 
to  be  exciting. 

Jane  came  with  Tommy.  There  was  a  sort  of 
rude  grand  stand  opposite  the  platform,  and  she  had 
a  seat  well  up  toward  the  top.  She  wore  a  white 
skirt,  a  gray  sweater  and  a  white  hat.  She  had  a 
friendly  smile  for  the  people  about  her.  And  they 
smiled  back.  They  liked  Jane. 

259 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Oliver  spoke  first.  Bare-headed,  slender,  with 
his  air  of  eternal  youth,  he  was  silhouetted  against 
the  rose  red  of  the  afterglow. 

When  he  began  he  led  them  lightly  along  paths 
of  easy  thought.  He  got  their  attention  as  he  had 
so  often  got  it  in  front  of  the  post-office.  He  made 
them  smile,  he  made  them  laugh,  he  led  them  indeed 
finally  into  roaring  laughter.  And  when  he  had 
brought  them  thus  into  sympathy  he  began  with 
earnestness  to  speak  of  Tinkersfield. 

Jane,  leaning  forward,  not  missing  a  word,  felt 
his  magnetism.  He  spoke  of  the  future  of  Tinkers- 
field.  Of  what  must  be  done  if  it  was  to  fulfill  its 
destiny  as  a  decent  town.  He  did  not  mince  his 
words. 

"  It  will  be  just  what  you  make  up  your  minds 
now  to  have  it — good  and  honest  and  clean,  a 
place  that  the  right  kind  of  people  will  want  to  live 
in,  or  the  place  that  will  attract  loungers  and 
loafers." 

He  laid  upon  them  the  burden  of  individual  re- 
sponsibility. If  a  town  was  honest,  he  said,  it  was 
because  the  men  in  it  were  honest ;  if  it  was  clean  it 
was  because  its  men  were  clean.  It  was  for  each 
man  to  decide  at  this  election  whether  Tinkersfield 
should  have  a  future  of  darkness  or  of  light.  There 
were  men  in  that  crowd  who  squared  their  shoulders 
to  meet  the  blows  of  his  eloquence,  who  kept  them 

260 


SANDWICH  JANE 

squared  as  they  made  their  decision  to  do  their  part 
in  the  upbuilding  of  Tinkersfield. 

Yet  it  was  not  perhaps  so  much  the  things  that 
Oliver  said  as  the  way  he  said  them.  He  had  the 
qualities  of  leadership — a,  sincerity  of  the  kind  that 
sways  men  level  with  their  leaders — the  sincerity  of 
a  Lincoln,  a  Roosevelt.  For  him  a  democracy 
meant  all  the  people.  Not  merely  plain  people,  not 
indeed  selected  classes.  Rich  man,  poor  man,  one, 
working  together  for  the  common  good. 

Back  of  his  sincerity  there  was  fire — and  grad- 
ually his  audience  was  lighted  by  his  flame.  They 
listened  in  a  tense  silence,  which  broke  now  and 
then  into  cheers.  To  Jane  sitting  high  up  on  the 
benches  he  was  a  prophet — the  John  the  Baptist  of 
Tinkersfield. 

"And  he's  mine,  he's  mine!  "  she  exulted.  This 
fineness  of  spirit,  the  fire  and  flame  were  hers. 
*;  If  I  know  you  are  there  somewhere  in  the  dark  I 
shall  pour  out  my  soul — to  you " 

The  darkness  had  not  yet  fallen,  but  the  dusk  had 
come.  The  platform  was  illumined  by  little  lights 
like  stars.  Back  of  the  platform  the  eucalyptus 
trees  were  now  pale  spectres,  their  leaves  hanging 
nerveless  in  the  still  air. 

O-liver  sitting  down  amid  thunders  of  applause 
let  his  eyes  go  for  the  moment  to  Jane.  A  lamp 
hung  almost  directly  over  her  head.  She  had 

261 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

taken  off  her  wide  hat  and  her  hair  was  glori- 
ous. She  was  leaning  forward  a  little,  her  lips 
parted,  her  hands  clasped,  as  if  he  still  spoke  to 
her. 

As  Tillotson's  sponsor  rose  Jane  straightened 
up,  smiled  at  Tommy,  and  again  set  herself  to 
listen. 

The  unctuous  voice  of  the  speaker  was  a  contrast 
to  Oliver's  crisp  tones.  There  were  other  con- 
trasts not  so  apparent.  This  man  was  in  the  game 
for  what  he  could  get  out  of  it.  He  wanted  Tillot- 
son to  win  because  Tillotson's  winning  would 
strengthen  his  own  position  politically.  He  meant 
indeed  that  Tillotson  should  win.  He  was  not 
particular  as  to  methods. 

He  said  the  usual  things:  Tinkersfield  was  no 
Sunday  school;  and  they  weren't  slaves  to  have 
their  liberty  taken  from  them  by  a  lot  of  impracti- 
cal reformers.  And  Lee  was  that  kind.  What  had 
he  ever  done  to  prove  that  he'd  make  good?  They 
knew  Tillotson.  They  didn't  know  Lee.  Who  was 
Lee  anyhow? 

He  flung  the  interrogation  at  them.  "  What  do 
you  know  about  Lee?  " 

The  pebble  that  he  threw  had  widening  circles. 
People  began  to  ask  themselves  what,  after  all,  they 
knew  of  O-liver.  From  somewhere  in  the  darkness 
went  up  the  "words  of  an  evil  chant : 

262 


SANDWICH  JANE 

What's  the  matter  with  O-liver,  0-liver, 
White-livered  O-liver? 
Ask  Jane,  Sandwich  Jane, 
O-liver,  white  liver, 
Jane,  Jane,  Jane. 

Jane  felt  her  heart  stand  still.  Back  of  her  she 
heard  Tommy  swearing:  "It's  all  their  damned 
wickedness !  "  She  saw  O-liver  start  from  his  chair 
and  sink  back,  helpless  against  the  insidiousness  of 
this  attack. 

The  speaker  went  on.  It  would  seem,  he  said, 
from  what  he  could  learn,  that  Tillotson's  honor- 
able opponent  was  sailing  under  false  colors.  He 
was  a  married  man.  He  had  deserted  his  wife. 
He  sat  among  them  as  a  saint,  when  he  was  really 
a  sinner. 

"A  sinner,  gentlemen."  The  speaker  paused 
for  the  effect,  then  proceeded  with  his  argument. 
Of  course  they  were  all  sinners,  but  they  weren't 
hypocrites.  Tillotson  wasn't  a  hypocrite.  He  was 
a  good  fellow.  He  didn't  want  Tinkersfield  to  be  a 
Sunday  school.  He  wanted  it  to  be  a  town.  You 
know — a  town  that  every  fellow  would  want  to  hi 
on  Saturday  night. 

There  were  those  in  the  crowd  who  began  to  feel 
that  a  weak  spot  had  been  found  in  O-liver's  armor. 
Secrecy !  They  didn't  like  it.  There  were  signs  of 
wavering  among  some  who  had  squared  their  shou!- 

263 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

ders.  After  all,  they  didn't  want  to  make  a  Sun- 
day school  of  Tinkersfield.  They  wondered,  too,  if 
there  wasn't  some  truth  in  the  things  that  were  be- 
ing hinted  by  that  low  chant  in  the  darkness : 

Ask  Jane,  Sandwich  Jane, 
0-liver,  white  liver, 
Jane,  Jane,  Jane. 

Oliver  was  restless,  his  hands  clenched  at  his 
sides.  Atwood  and  Henry  were  restless.  Tommy 
was  restless.  They  couldn't  let  such  insults  go  un- 
noticed. Somebody  had  to  fight  for  Jane ! 

Tillotson's  supporters  kept  the  thing  stirring. 
If  tke  meeting  could  end  in  a  brawl  the  odds  would 
be  in  favor  of  Tillotson.  The  effect  of  O-liver's  up- 
lift would  be  lost.  Even  his  friends  couldn't  sway 
a  fighting  crowd  back  to  him. 

But  they  had  forgotten  to  reckon  with  Jane! 

She  had  seen  in  a  sudden  crystal  flash  the  thing 
which  might  happen.  A  fight  would  end  it  all  for 
O-liver.  She  had  seen  his  efforts  at  self-control. 
She  knew  his  agony  of  soul.  She  knew  that  at  any 
moment  he  might  knock  somebody  down — Tillotson 
or  Tillotson's  sponsor.  And  it  would  all  be  in  the 
morning  papers.  There  would  be  innuendo — the 
hint  of  scandalous  things.  And  O-liver's  reputa- 
tion would  pay  the  price.  It  was  characteristic 
that  she  did  not  at  the  moment  think  of  her 

264 


SANDWICH  JANE 

own  reputation.  It  was  O-liver  who  must  be 
saved! 

And  so  when  Tillotson's  backer  sat  down  Jane 
stood  up. 

"  Please,  listen !  "  she  said ;  and  the  crowd  turned 
toward  her.  "  Please,  listen,  and  stop  singing  that 
silly  song.  I  never  heard  anything  so  silly  as  that 
song  in  my  life !  " 

Before  her  scorn  the  chant  died  away  in  a 
gasp! 

"  The  thing  you've  got  to  think  about,"  she 
went  on,  "isn't  Tillotson  or  O-liver  Lee.  It's 
Tinkersfield.  You  want  an  honest  man.  And 
O-liver  Lee's  honest.  He  doesn't  want  your  money. 
He's  got  enough  of  his  own.  His  father's  the  rich- 
est man  in  his  part  of  the  state  and  his  wife's  a 
movie  actress  and  makes  as  much  as  the  President. 
It  sounds  like  a  fairy  tale,  but  it  isn't.  If  O-liver 
Lee  wanted  to  live  on  his  father  or  his  wife  he 
could  hold  out  his  hand  and  let  things  drop  into  it. 
But  he'd  rather  earn  fifteen  dollars  a  week  and  own 
his  soul.  And  he  isn't  a  hypocrite.  His  friends 
knew  about  his  marriage.  Tommy  Drew  knew,  and 
I  knew.  And  there  wasn't  any  particular  reason 
why  he  should  tell  the  rest  of  you,  was  there? 
There  wasn't  any  particular  reason  why  he  should 
tell  Tillotson?  " 

A  murmur  of  laughter  followed  her  questions. 
265 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

There  was  a  feeling  in  the  crowd  that  the  joke  was 
on  Tillotson. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  of  you  have  told  your  pasts 
to  Tinkersfield!  How  many  of  you  have  made 
Tillotson  your  father  confessor? 

"  As  for  me" — her  head  was  high  — "  I  sell  sand- 
wiches. I  am  very  busy.  I  hardly  have  time  to 
think.  But  when  I  do  think  it  is  of  something 
besides  village  gossip." 

She  grew  suddenly  earnest ;  leaned  down  to  them. 
"  You  haven't  time  to  think  of  it  either,"  she  told 
them;  "have  you,  men  of  Tinkersfield?" 

Her  appeal  was  direct,  and  the  answer  came  back 
to  her  in  a  roar  from  the  men  who  knew  courage 
when  they  saw  it ;  who  knew,  indeed,  innocence ! 

"  No ! " 

And  it  was  that  "  No"  which  beat  Tillotson. 

"  The  way  she  put  it  over,"  Atwood  exulted  after- 
ward, "  to  a  packed  crowd  like  this ! " 

"  The  thing  about  Jane  " — Henry  was  very  seri- 
ously trying  to  say  the  thing  as  he  saw  it — "the 
thing  about  Jane  is  that  she  sees  things  straight. 
And  she  makes  other  people  see." 

IX 

Well,  Tillotson  was  beaten,  and  the  men  who 
supported  Oliver  came  out  of  the  fight  feeling  as 
if  they  had  killed  something  unclean. 

266 


SANDWICH  JANE 

And  the  morning  after  the  election  Oliver  had  a 
little  note  from  Jane. 

"  I've  got  to  go  away.  I  didn't  want  to  worry 
you  with  it  before  this.  I  have  saved  enough  money 
to  start  in  at  some  college  where  I  can  work  for  a 
part  of  my  tuition.  I  have  had  experience  in  my 
little  lunch  room  that  ought  to  be  a  help  somewhere. 

"  When  I  finish  college  I'm  going  into  some  sort 
of  occupation  that  will  provide  a  pleasant  home 
for  mother  and  me.  I  want  books,  and  lovely 
things,  and  a  garden;  and  I'd  like  to  speak  a  lan- 
guage or  two  and  have  cultured  friends.  .  Then 
some  day  when  you  are  made  President  you  can 
say  to  yourself :  '  I  am  proud  of  my  friend,  Jane/ 
And  I'll  come  to  your  inauguration  and  watch  you 
ride  to  the  White  House,  and  I'll  say  to  myself  as  I 
see  you  ride, '  I've  loved  him  all  these  years/ 

"  But  I  shan't  let  myself  say  it  now.  And  that's 
why  I'm  going  away.  And  I'm  going  without  say- 
ing good-bye  because  I  think  it  will  be  easier  for 
both  of  us.  You  and  I  can't  be  friends.  What  we 
feel  is  too  big.  I  found  that  out  about  myself  that 
night  when  you  sat  there  on  the  platform,  and  I 
wanted  to  save  you  from  Tillotson.  If  I'm  going 
to  work  and  be  happy  in  my  work  I've  got  to  get 
away.  And  you  will  work  better  because  I  am 
gone.  I  mustn't  be  here — Oliver." 

Jane  had  indeed  seen  straight.  Oliver  laid  the 
267 


note  down  on  Ms  desk  and  looked  up  at  the  moun- 
tain. He  needed  to  look  up.  If  he  had  looked 
down  for  a  moment  he  would  have  followed  Jane. 


X 

And  now  there  was  no  sandwich  stand  in  Tink- 
ersfield.  But  there  was  a  good  hotel.  O-liver  saw 
to  that.  He  got  Henry  Bittinger  to  put  up  the 
money,  with  Tommy  and  his  mother  in  charge. 
O-liver  lived  in  the  hotel  in  a  suite  of  small  rooms, 
and  when  Atwood  Jones  passed  that  way  the  four 
men  dined  together  as  Oliver's  guests. 

"  Some  day  we'll  eat  with  you  in  Washington," 
was  Atwood's  continued  prophecy. 

They  always  drank  "  To  Jane."  Now  and  then 
Atwood  brought  news  of  her.  First  from  the 
college,  and  then  as  the  years  passed  from  the  beach 
resort  where  she  had  opened  a  tea  room.  She  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  more  wonderful.  Her 
tea  room  and  shop  were  most  exclusive  and  artistic. 

"  Sandwich  Jane !  "  said  O-liver.  "  How  long 
ago  it  seems !  " 

It  was  five  years  now  and  he  had  not  seen  her. 
And  next  month  he  was  to  go  to  Washington.  Not 
as  President,  but  representing  his  district  in  Con- 
gress. Tommy's  hotel  had  outgrown  the  original 
modest  building  and  was  now  modern  and  fire- 

268 


SANDWICH  JANE 

proof.  Henry  was  married,  he  had  had  several  new 
cars,  and  his  wife  wore  sables  and  seal. 

The  old  arcade  was  no  more;  nor  the  old  post- 
office.  But  O-liver  still  talked  to  admiring  circles 
in  the  hotel  lobby  or  to  greater  crowds  in  the  town 
hall. 

He  still  would  take  no  money  from  his  father,  but 
he  saw  much  of  him,  for  Mrs.  Lee  was  dead.  The 
Tudor  house  was  without  a  mistress.  It  seemed  a 
pity  that  O-liver  had  no  wife  to  grace  its  halls. 

The  newspapers  stated  that  Fluffy  Hair's  income 
had  doubled.  Whether  this  was  true  or  not  it 
sounded  well,  and  Fluffy  Hair  still  seemed  young 
on  the  screen.  Jane  would  go  now  and  then  and 
look  at  her  and  wonder  what  sort  of  woman  this 
was  who  had  laughed  at  O-liver. 

Then  one  day  a  telegram  came  to  O-liver  in  his 
suite  of  rooms.  And  that  day  and  for  two  nights 
he  rode  Mary  Pick  over  the  hills  and  through  the 
can"  on  and  down  to  the  sea,  and  came  to  a  place 
where  Jane's  tea  room  was  set  in  the  center  of  a 
Japanese  garden — a  low  lovely  building,  with  its 
porches  open  to  the  wide  Pacific. 

He  had  not  seen  her  for  so  long  that  he  was  not 
quite  prepared  for  the  change.  She  was  thinner 
and  paler  and  more  beautiful,  with  an  air  of  dis- 
tinction that  was  new.  It  was  as  if  in  visualizing 
his  future  she  had  pictured  herself  in  it — as  first 

269 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

lady  of  the  land.     Such,  a  silly  dream  for  San'dwich 
Jane! 

They  were  quite  alone  when  he  came  to  her.  It 
was  morning,  and  the  porches  were  empty  of 
guests.  Jane  was  in  a  long  wicker  chair,  with  her 
pot  of  coffee  on  an  hour-glass  table.  Far  down  on 
the  terrace  two  Jap  gardeners  clipped  and  cut  and 
watered  and  saw  nothing. 

"  You  are  younger  than  ever,"  Jane  said  when 
they  had  clasped  hands.  "  Will  you  ever  grow  old, 
O-liver?  " 

"  The  men  say  not."  He  seated  himself  opposite 
her.  "  Jane,  Jane,  it's  heavenly  to  see  you.  I've 
been — starved !  " 

She  had  hungered  and  thirsted  for  him.  Her 
hand  shook  a  little  as  she  poured  him  a  cup  of 
coffee. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  come,. O-liver." 

He  laid  the  telegram  before  her.  Fluffy  Hair 
was  dead! 

The  yellow  sheet  lay  between,  defying  them  to 
speak  so  soon  of  happiness. 

"  To-morrow,"  O-liver  said,  "  I  go  to  Washing- 
ton. When  will  you  come  to  me,  Jane?  " 

Her  hand  went  out  to  him.  Her  breath  was 
quick.  "  In  time  to  hear  your  first  speech,  O-liver. 
I'll  sit  in  the  gallery,  and  lean  over  and  listen  and 
say  to  myself,  '  He's  mine,  he's  mine ! f " 

270 


SANDWICH  JANE 

She  heard  many  speeches  in  the  months  that  fol- 
lowed, and  sometimes  Tommy  or  Atwood  or  Henry, 
traveling  across  the  continent,  came  and  sat  be- 
side her.  And  Atwood  always  clung  to  his  proph- 
ecy :  "  He'll  be  governor  next ;  and  then  it'll  be 
the  White  House.  Why  not?  " 

And  Jane,  dreaming,  asked  herself  "Why?" 
The  East  had  had  its  share.     Had  the  time  not 
come  for  a  nation  to  seek  its  leader  in  the  golden 
West? 


271 


LADY  CRUSOE 

BILLY  and  I  came  down  from  the  North  and 
opened  a  grocery  store  at  Jefferson  Corners.  It  is 
a  little  store  and  there  aren't  many  houses  near  it — 
just  the  railroad  station  and  a  big  shed  or  two.  Be- 
yond the  sheds  a  few  cabins  straggle  along  the  road, 
and  then  begin  the  great  plantations,  which  really 
aren't  plantations  any  more,  because  nobody 
around  here  raises  much  of  anything  in  these  days. 
They  just  sit  and  sigh  over  the  things  that  are  dif- 
ferent since  the  war. 

That's  what  Billy  says  about  them.  Billy  is  up- 
to-date  and  he  has  a  motor-cycle.  He  made  up  his 
mind  when  he  came  that  he  was  going  to  put  some 
ginger  into  the  neighborhood.  So  he  rides  miles 
every  morning  on  his  motor-cycle  to  get  orders,  and 
he  delivers  the  things  himself  unless  it  is  barrels 
of  flour  or  cans  of  kerosene  or  other  heavy  articles, 
and  then  he  hires  somebody  to  help  him.  At  first 
he  had  William  Watters  and  his  mule.  William  is 
black  and  his  mule  is  gray,  and  they  are  both  old. 
It  took  them  hours  to  get  anywhere,  and  I  used  to 
feel  sorry  for  them.  But  when  I  found  out  that 
compared  to  Billy  and  me  they  lived  on  flowery  beds 
of  ease,  I  stopped  sympathizing.  They  both  hare 

272 


LADY  CRUSOE 

enough  to  eat,  and  they  work  only  when  they  want 
to.  Billy  and  I  work  all  the  time.  We  have  our 
way  to  make  in  the  world,  and  we  feel  that  it  all 
depends  on  ourselves.  We  started  out  with  noth- 
ing ahead  of  us  but  my  ambitions  and  Billy's  en- 
ergy, and  a  few  hundred  dollars  which  my  guardian 
turned  over  to  me  when  I  married  Billy  on  my 
twenty-first  birthday. 

As  soon  as  we  were  married,  we  came  to  Virginia. 
Billy  and  I  had  an  idea  that  everything  south  of 
the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  was  just  waiting  for  us, 
and  we  wanted  to  earn  the  eternal  gratitude  of  the 
community  by  helping  it  along.  But  after  we  had 
lived  at  Jefferson  Corners  for  a  little  while,  we  be- 
gan to  feel  that  there  wasn't  any  community. 
There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  towns  like  our  nice 
New  England  ones,  with  sociable  trolley-cars  con- 
necting them  and  farmhouses  in  a  lovely  line  be- 
tween. You  can  ride  for  miles  through  this  coun- 
try and  never  pass  anything  but  gates.  Then  way 
up  in  the  hills  you  will  see  a  clump  of  trees,  and  in 
the  clump  you  can  be  pretty  sure  there  is  a  house. 
In  the  winter  when  the  leaves  are  off  the  trees  you 
can  see  the  house,  but  in  the  summer  there  is  no 
sign  of  it.  In  the  old  days  they  seemed  to  feel  that 
they  were  lacking  somewhat  in  delicacy  if  they 
exposed  their  mansions  to  the  rude  gaze  of  the 
public, 

273 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

There  was  one  mansion  that  Billy  took  me  to  now 
and  then.  It  was  empty,  and  that  was  why  we 
went.  The  big  houses  which  were  occupied  were 
not  open  to  us,  except  in  a  trades-person  sort  of 
fashion,  and  Billy  and  I  are  not  to  be  condescended 
to — we  had  a  pair  of  grandfathers  in  the  May- 
flower. But  that  doesn't  count  down  here,  where 
everybody  goes  back  to  William  the  Conqueror. 

That  great  big  empty  house  was  a  fine  place  for 
our  Sunday  afternoon  outings.  We  always  went  to 
church  in  the  morning,  and  people  were  very  kind, 
but  it  was  kindness  with  a  question-mark.  You 
see  Billy  and  I  live  over  the  store,  and  none  of 
them  had  ever  lived  on  anything  but  ancestral 
acres. 

So  our  Sunday  mornings  were  a  bit  stiff  and  dis- 
appointing, but  our  afternoons  were  heavenly.  We 
discovered  the  Empty  House  in  the  spring,  and 
there  was  laurel  on  the  mountains  and  the  grass 
was  young  and  green  on  the  slopes,  and  the  sky  was 
a  faint  warm  blue  with  the  sailing  buzzards  black 
against  it.  Billy  and  I  used  to  stop  at  the  second 
gate,  which  was  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  look  off 
over  the  other  hills  where  the  pink  sheep  were  pas- 
tured. I  am  perfectly  sure  that  there  are  no  other 
sheep  in  the  whole  wide  world  like  those  Albemarle 
sheep.  The  spring  rains  turn  the  red  clay  into  a 
mud  which  sticks  like  paint,  and  the  sheep  are 

274 


LADY  CRUSOE 

colored  a  lovely  terra-cotta  which,  fades  gradually 
to  pink. 

The  effect  is  impressionistic,  like  purple  cows. 
Billy  doesn't  care  for  it,  but  I  do.  And  I  adore  the 
brilliant  red  of  the  roads.  Billy  says  he'll  take 
good  brown  earth  and  white  flocks.  He  might  be 
reconciled  to  black  sheep  but  never  to  pink  ones. 

We  used  to  eat  our  supper  on  the  porch  of  the 
Empty  House.  It  had  great  pillars,  and  it  was 
rather  awe-inspiring  to  sit  on  the  front  steps  and 
look  up  the  whole  length  of  those  Corinthian  col- 
umns. Billy  and  I  felt  dwarfed  and  insignificant, 
but  we  forgot  it  when  we  turned  our  eyes  to  the 
hills. 

The  big  door  behind  us  and  the  blank  windows 
were  shut  and  shuttered  close.  There  were  flying 
squirrels  on  the  roof  and  little  blue-tailed  lizards  on 
the  stone  flagging  in  front  of  the  house ;  and  there 
was  an  old  toad  who  used  to  keep  us  company.  I 
called  him  Prince  Charming,  and  I  am  sure  he  was 
as  old  as  Methuselah,  and  lived  under  that  stone  in 
some  prehistoric  age. 

We  just  loved  our  little  suppers.  We  had  coffee 
in  our  thermos  bottle,  and  cold  fried  chicken  and 
bread  and  butter  sandwiches  and  chocolate  cake. 
We  never  changed,  because  we  were  always  afraid 
that  we  shouldn't  like  anything  else  so  well,  and 
we  were  sure  of  the  chicken  and  the  chocolate  cake. 

275 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

And  after  we  had  eaten  our  suppers  we  would 
talk  about  what  kind  of  house  we  would  build  when 
our  ship  came  in.  Billy  and  I  both  have  nice 
tastes,  and  we  know  what  we  want;  and  we  feel 
that  the  grocery  store  is  just  a  stepping-stone  to 
better  things. 

The  sunsets  were  late  in  those  spring  days,  and 
there  would  be  pink  and  green  and  pale  amethyst 
in  the  western  sky,  and  after  that  deep  sapphire 
and  a  silver  moon.  And  as  it  grew  darker  the 
silver  would  turn  to  gold,  and  there  would  be  a 
star — and  then  more  stars  until  the  night  came 
on. 

I  can't  tell  you  how  we  used  to  feel.  You  see 
we  were  young  and  in  love,  and  life  was  a  pretty 
good  thing  to  us.  There  was  one  perfect  night 
when  the  hills  were  flooded  with  moonlight.  We 
seemed  all  alone  in  a  lovely  world  and  I  whispered : 

"  Oh,  Billy,  Billy,  and  some  folks  think  that  there 
isn't  any  God " 

And  Billy  put  his  arm  around  me  and  patted  my 
cheek,  and  we  didn't  say  anything  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  just  a  week  later  that  Lady  Crusoe  came. 
I  knew  that  some  one  was  in  the  house  as  soon  as 
we  passed  the  second  gate.  The  door  was  still 
closed,  and  the  shutters  were  not  opened,  but  I 
heard  a  clock  strike — a  ship's  clock — with  bells. 

I  clutched  Billy.     "  Listen,"  I  said. 
276 


LADY  CRUSOE 

He  heard  it,  too.  "Who  in  the  dickens?"  he 
demanded. 

"  There's  somebody  in  the  house " 

"  Xonsense " 

"Billy,  there  must  be,  and  we  can't  sit  on  the 
porch." 

"  You  stay  here,  and  I'll  go  around  to  the  back/' 

But  I  wouldn't  let  him  go  alone.  At  the  back  of 
the  house  a  window  was  open,  and  then  we  were 
sure. 

"We'd  better  leave,"  I  said,  but  Billy  insisted 
that  we  stay.  "  If  they  are  new  people,  I'll  find  out 
their  names,  and  come  up  to-morrow  and  get  their 
orders." 

We  went  around  to  the  front  door  and  knocked 
and  knocked,  but  nobody  answered.  So  we  sat 
down  on  the  front  step  and  presently  Billy  said 
that  we  might  as  well  eat  our  supper,  for  very  evi- 
dently nobody  was  at  home. 

I  didn't  feel  a  bit  comfortable  about  it,  but  I 
opened  our  basket  and  got  out  our  cups  and  plates, 
and  Billy  poured  the  coffee  and  passed  the  chicken 
and  the  bread  and  butter  sandwiches.  And  just 
then  the  door  creaked  and  the  knob  turned ! 

My  first  impulse  was  to  gather  up  the  lunch  and 
tumble  it  into  the  basket ;  but  I  didn't.  I  just  sat 
there  looking  up  as  calmly  as  if  I  were  serving  tea 
at  my  own  table,  and  Billy  sat  there  too  looking  up. 

277 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

The  door  opened  and  a  voice  said,  "  Oh,  if  you 
are  eating  supper,  may  I  have  some?  " 

It  was  a  lovely  voice,  and  Billy  jumped  to  his 
feet.  A  lovely  head  came  after  the  voice.  Just  the 
head,  peeping  around — the  body  was  hidden  by  the 
door.  On  the  head  was  a  lace  cap  with  a  gold  rose, 
and  the  hair  under  the  cap  was  gold. 

"  You  see,  I  just  got  up,"  said  the  voice,  "  and 
I  haven't  had  any  breakfast " 

Billy  and  I  gasped.  It  was  seven  p.  Mv  and  the 
meal  that  we  were  serving  was  supper ! 

"  Do  you  mind  my  coming  out?  "  said  the  voice. 
"  I  am  not  exactly  clothed  and  in  my  right  mind, 
but  perhaps  I'll  do." 

She  opened  the  door  wider  and  stepped  down.  I 
saw  that  her  slippers  had  gold  roses  and  that  they 
were  pale  pink  like  the  sunset.  She  wore  a  motor 
coat  of  tan  cloth  which  covered  her  up,  but  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  a  pink  silk  negligee  underneath. 

She  sat  quite  sociably  on  the  steps  with  us.  "  I 
am  famished,"  she  said.  "  I  haven't  had  a  thing  to 
eat  for  twenty-four  hours." 

We  gasped  again.     "  How  did  it  happen?  " 

"  I  was — shipwrecked,"  she  said,  "  in  a  motor- 
car— I  am  the  only  survivor " 

Her  eyes  twinkled.  "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
presently."  Then  she  broke  off  and  laughed. 
"  But  first  will  you  feed  a  starving  castaway?  " 

278 


LADY  CRUSOE 

Yet  she  didn't  really  tell  us  anything.  She  ate 
and  ate,  and  it  was  the  prettiest  thing  to  see  her. 
She  was  dainty  and  young  and  eager  like  a  child  at 
a  party. 

"  How  good  everything  is !  "  she  said,  at  last  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  hungry  in  my 
life." 

Billy  and  I  didn't  eat  much.  You  see  we  were 
too  interested,  and  besides  we  had  had  our  din- 
ner. 

As  I  have  said,  she  didn't  really  tell  us  anything. 
"  It  was  an  accident,  and  I  came  up  here.  And  the 
old  clock  that  you  heard  strike  belonged  to  my 
grandfather.  He  was  an  admiral,  and  it  was  his 
clock.  I  used  to  listen  to  it  as  a  child." 

"  What  happened  to  the  rest ?  "  Billy  asked, 

bluntly.  He  was  more  concerned  about  the  auto- 
mobile accident  than  about  her  ancestors. 

"  Oh,  do  you  mean  the  others  in  the  car?  "  she 
came  reluctantly  back  from  the  admiral  and  his 
ship's  clock.  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  And  I 
am  very  sure  that  I  don't  care." 

"  But  were  any  of  them  killed?  " 

"  No — they  are  all  alive — but  you  see — it  was  a 
shipwreck — and  I  floated  away — by  myself — and 
this  is  my  island,  and  you  are  the  nice  friendly 

savages "  she  touched  Billy  on  the  arm.  He 

drew  away  a  bit.  I  knew  that  he  was  afraid  she 

279 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

had  lost  her  mind,  but  I  had  seen  her  twinkling 
eyes.     "  Oh,  it's  all  a  joke !  "  I  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It  isn't  exactly  a  joke,  but 
it  might  look  like  that  to  other  people." 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I'll  come  up  in  the  morning  for  orders,"  said 
Billy  promptly.  "I  keep  the  grocery  store  at 
Jefferson  Corners." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  and  seemed  to  hesitate ;  "  there 
won't  be  any  orders." 

Billy  stared  at  her.  "  But  there  isn't  any  other 
store." 

"  Robinson  Crusoe  didn't  have  stores,  did  he? 
He  found  things  and  lived  on  the  land.  And  I  am 
Lady  Crusoe." 

"  Really?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  I've  another  name — but — if  people  around  here 
question  you — you  won't  tell  them,  will  you,  that 
I  am  here ?" 

She  said  it  in  such  a  pretty  pleading  fashion  that 
of  course  we  promised.  It  was  late  when  we  had 
to  go.  I  insisted  that  we  should  leave  what  re- 
mained of  the  supper,  and  she  seemed  glad  to  get 
it.  "  You  are  nice  friendly  savages,"  she  said,  with 
that  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  "  and  I  am  very  grateful. 
Come  into  the  house  and  let  me  show  you  my 

clock » 

280 


LADY  CRUSOE 

She  showed  us  more  than  the  clock.  I  hadn't 
dreamed  in  those  days  when  Billy  and  I  sat  alone 
on  the  steps  of  the  treasures  that  were  shut  up  be- 
hind us.  The  old  furniture  was  dusty,  but  all  the 
dust  in  the  world  couldn't  hide  its  beauty.  The 
dining-room  was  hung  with  cobwebs,  but  when  the 
candles  were  lighted  we  saw  the  Sheffield  on  the  old 
sideboard,  the  Chinese  porcelains,  the  Heppelwhite 
chairs,  the  painted  sheepskin  screen 

She  picked  out  a  lovely  little  pitcher  and  gave  it 
to  me.  I  did  not  learn  until  afterward  that  it  was 
pink  lustre  and  worth  a  pretty  penny.  She  paid 
in  that  way,  you  see,  for  her  supper,  and  something 
in  her  manner  made  me  feel  that  I  must  not  refuse 
it. 

She  did  not  ask  us  to  come  again,  yet  I  was  sure 
that  she  liked  us.  I  felt  that  perhaps  it  was  the 
grocery  store  which  had  made  her  hesitate.  But 
whatever  it  was,  I  must  confess  that  I  was  a  little 
lonely  as  I  went  away.  You  see  we  had  come  to 
look  forward  to  our  welcome  at  the  Empty  House. 
We  had  known  that  we  were  the  honored  guests 
of  the  flying  squirrels  and  the  lizards  and  of  old 
Prince  Charming.  But  now  that  the  house  was 
no  longer  empty,  we  would  not  be  welcome.  I  was 
sorry  that  I  had  accepted  the  pink  pitcher.  I 
should  have  preferred  to  feel  that  I  owed  no  favor 
to  the  lady  with  the  twinkling  eyes. 

281 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

It  wasn't  long  after  our  adventure  at  the  Empty 
House  that  Billy  asked  William  Watters  to  take  a 
big  load  to  a  customer  two  miles  out.  But  William 
couldn't.  He  was  working,  he  said,  at  a  regular 
place.  We  couldn't  imagine  William  as  being 
regular  about  anything.  He  and  his  mule  were  so 
irregular  in  their  habits.  They  came  and  went  as 
they  pleased,  and  they  would  take  naps  whenever 
the  spirit  moved  them.  But  now,  as  William  said, 
he  was  "  wukin'  regular,"  and  he  refused  to  say  for 
whom  he  worked.  But  we  found  out  one  day  when 
he  drove  Lady  Crusoe  down  in  a  queer  old  carriage 
with  his  mule  as  a  prancing  steed. 

He  helped  her  descend  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen, 
and  she  came  in  and  talked  to  Billy.  "You  see, 
I've  hunted  up  my  friendly  savages,"  she  said. 
"I've  reached  the  end  of  my  resources."  She 
gave  a  small  order,  and  told  Billy  that  she  wasn't 
at  all  sure  when  she  could  pay  her  bill,  but  that 
there  were  a  lot  of  things  in  her  old  house  which  he 
could  have  for  security. 

Billy  said  gallantly  that  he  didn't  need  any  se- 
curity, and  that  her  account  could  run  as  long  as 
she  wished  and  that  he  was  glad  to  serve  her.  And 
he  got  out  his  pad  and  pencil  and  stood  in  that  nice 
way  of  his  at  attention. 

I  listened  and  looked  through  a  window  at  the 
back.  I  had  seen  her  drive  up,  and  she  was  stun- 

282 


LADY  CRUSOE 

ning  in  the  same  tan  motor-coat  that  she  had  worn 
when  we  first  saw  her.  But  she  had  on  a  brown 
hat  and  veil  and  brown  shoes  instead  of  the  lace 
cap  and  rosy  slippers. 

She  asked  about  me,  and  Billy  told  her  that  I  was 
in  the  garden.  And  I  was  in  the  garden  when  she 
came  out;  but  I  had  to  run.  She  sat  down  in  a 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  my  little  sewing-table  and 
talked  to  me.  It  is  such  a  scrap  of  a  garden  that 
there  is  only  room  for  a  tiny  table  and  two  chairs, 
but  a  screen  of  old  cedars  hides  it  from  the  road, 
and  there's  a  twisted  apple-tree,  and  the  fields  be- 
yond and  a  glimpse  of  the  mountains. 

"  How  is  the  island?  "  Billy  asked  her. 

She  twinkled.     "  I  have  a  man  Friday." 

"William  Watters?" 

She  nodded.  "  The  Watters  negroes  have  been 
our  servants  for  generations.  And  William  thinks 
that  he  belongs  to  me.  He  cooks  for  me  and 
forages.  He  shot  two  squirrels  one  morning  and 
made  me  a  Brunswick  stew.  But  I  couldn't  stand 
that.  You  see  the  squirrels  are  my  friends." 

I  thought  of  the  flying  squirrels  and  the  blue- 
tailed  lizards  and  the  old  toad,  and  I  knew  how  she 
felt.  And  I  said  so.  She  looked  at  me  sharply, 
and  then  she  laid  her  hand  over  mine:  "Are  you 
lonely,  my  dear?  " 

I  said  that  I  was — a  little.  Billy  had  gone  in  to 
283 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

wait  on  a  customer,  so  I  dared  say  it.  I  told  her 
that  nobody  had  called. 

"  But  why  not?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  think,"  I  said  slowly,  "  it  is  because  we  live — 
over  the  store." 

"  I  see."  And  she  did  see ;  it  was  in  her  blood  as 
well  as  in  the  blood  of  the  rest  of  them. 

Presently  she  stood  up  and  said  that  she  must  go, 
and  it  was  then  that  she  noticed  the  work  that  was 
in  my  basket  on  the  table.  She  lifted  out  a  little 
garment  and  the  red  came  into  her  cheeks.  "  Oh, 
oh !  "  she  said,  and  stood  looking  at  it.  When  she 
laid  it  down,  she  came  around  the  table  and  kissed 
me.  "  What  a  dear  you  are ! "  she  said,  and  then 
she  went  away. 

William  Watters  came  in  very  often  after  that; 
but  he  said  very  little  about  Lady  Crusoe.  He  was 
a  faithful  old  thing,  and  he  had  evidently  had  in- 
structions. But  one  morning  he  brought  a  fine  old 
Sheffield  tray  to  Billy  and  asked  him  to  take  his 
pay  out  of  it,  and  let  Lady  Crusoe  have  the  rest  in 
cash.  William  Watters  didn't  call  her  "Lady 
Crusoe,"  he  called  her  "  Miss  Lily,"  which  didn't 
give  us  the  key  to  the  situation  in  the  least.  Billy 
didn't  know  how  to  value  the  tray,  so  he  asked  me. 
I  knew  more  than  he  did,  but  I  wasn't  sure.  I  told 
him  to  advance  what  he  thought  was  best,  and  to 
send  it  to  the  city  and  have  it  appraised,  or  what- 

284 


LADY  CRUSOE 

ever  they  call  it,  so  he  did;  and  when  the  check 
from  the  antique  shop  came  it  was  a  big  one. 

It  wasn't  long  after  that  that  Lady  Crusoe  called 
on  me.  It  was  a  real  call,  and  she  left  a  card. 
And  she  said  as  she  laid  it  on  the  table :  "As  I  told 
you,  I'd  rather  the  rest  of  the  natives  didn't  know — 
they  haven't  seen  me  since  I  was  a  child,  and  they 
think  that  I  am  just  some  stranger  who  rents  the 
old  place  and  who  wants  to  be  alone." 

After  she  had  gone  I  picked  up  the  card,  and 
what  I  read  there  nearly  took  my  breath  away. 
There  are  certain  names  which  mean  so  much  that 
we  get  to  look  upon  them  as  having  special  signifi- 
cance. The  name  that  was  on  Lady  Crusoe's  card 
had  always  stood  in  my  mind  for  money — oceans  of 
it.  I  simply  couldn't  believe  my  eyes,  and  I  took 
it  down  to  Billy. 

"  Look  at  that,"  I  said,  and  laid  it  before  him, 
"  and  she  has  asked  us  to  supper  for  next  Sunday ! " 

Well,  we  couldn't  make  anything  of  it.  Why 
was  a  woman  with  a  name  like  that  down  here  with 
nothing  to  eat  but  the  things  that  William  Watters 
could  forage  for,  and  that  Billy  could  supply  from 
his  little  store,  and  that  she  paid  for  with  Shef- 
field trays? 

We  had  supper  that  Sunday  night  in  the  great 
dining-room.  There  was  a  five-branched  candle- 
stick with  tall  white  candles  in  the  center  of  the 

286 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

shining  mahogany  table  and  William  Walters  acted 
as  butler.  You  never  would  have  believed  how  well 
he  did  it.  And  after  supper  we  had  coffee  on  the 
front  porch  and  looked  out  over  the  hills  at  the 
sunset,  and  the  silver  moon  and  the  old  toad  came 
out  from  under  his  stone  and  sat  with  us. 

Lady  Crusoe  was  in  a  thin  white  dress  which  she 
had  made  for  herself,  and  she  talked  of  the  old 
place  and  of  her  childhood  there.  But  not  a  word 
did  she  say  of  why  she  had  come  back  to  live  alone 
on  the  Davenant  ancestral  acres. 

It  was  her  mother,  we  learned,  who  was  a  Daven- 
ant, and  it  was  her  mother's  father  who  was  the  old 
admiral.  She  said  nothing  of  the  man  whose  name 
was  on  her  card.  It  was  as  if  she  stopped  short 
when  she  came  to  that  part  of  her  life,  or  as  if  it 
had  never  been. 

She  took  me  up-stairs  after  a  while  and  left 
Billy  to  smoke  on  the  porch.  She  said  that  she 
had  something  that  she  wanted  me  to  see.  Her 
room  was  a  huge  square  one  at  the  southwest 
corner  of  the  house.  There  was  a  massive  four- 
poster  bed  with  faded  blue  satin  curtains,  and 
there  was  a  fireplace  with  fire-dogs  and  an  Adam 
screen.  Lady  Crusoe  carried  a  candle,  and  as  she 
stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  she  seemed  to  gather 
all  of  the  light  to  her,  like  the  saints  in  the  old 
pictures.  She  was  so  perfectly  lovely  that  I  almost 

286 


LADY  CRUSOE 

wanted  to  cry.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  there  was 
something  pathetic  about  her  beauty. 

She  set  the  candle  down  and  opened  an  old  brass- 
bound  chest.  She  took  out  a  roll  of  cloth  and 
brought  it  over  and  laid  it  on  the  table  beside  the 
candle. 

<;  I  bought  it  with  some  of  the  money  that  your 
Billy  got  for  my  Sheffield  tray,"  she  said.  Then 
she  turned  to  me  with  a  quick  motion  and  laid  her 
hands  on  my  shoulders.  "  Oh,  you  very  dear — 
when  I  saw  you  making  those  little  things — I  knew 
that — that  the  good  Lord  had  led  me.  Will  you — 
will  you — show  me — how?  " 

I  told  Billy  about  it  on  the  way  home. 

"  She  doesn't  know  anything  about  sewing,  and 
she  hasn't  any  patterns,  and  I  am  to  go  up  every 
day,  and  William  Watters  will  come  for  me  with 
his  mule " 

Then  I  cried  about  her  a  little,  because  it  seemed 
so  dreadful  that  she  should  be  there  all  alone,  with- 
out any  one  to  sustain  her  and  cherish  her  as  Billy 
did  me. 

"  Oh,  Billy,  Billy,"  I  said  to  him,  "  I'd  rather  live 
over  a  grocery  store  with  you  than  live  in  a  palace 
with  anybody  else " 

And  Billy  said,  "Don't  cry,  lady  love,  you  are 
not  going  to  live  with  anybody  else." 

And  he  put  his  arm  around  me,  and  as  we  walked 
287 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

along  together  in  the  April  night  it  was  like  the 
days  when  we  had  been  young  lovers,  only  our  joy 
in  each  other  was  deeper  and  finer,  for  then  we  had 
only  guessed  at  happiness,  and  now  we  knew 

Well,  I  went  up  every  day.  William  Watters 
came  for  me,  and  I  carried  my  patterns  and  we  sat 
in  the  big  west  room,  and  right  under  the  window 
a  pair  of  robins  were  building  a  nest. 

We  watched  them  as  they  worked,  and  it  seemed 
to  us  that  no  matter  how  hard  we  toiled  those  two 
birds  kept  ahead.  "  I  never  dreamed,"  Lady  Crusoe 
remarked  one  morning,  "  that  they  were  at  it  all  the 
time  like  this." 

"  You  wait  until  they  begin  to  feed  their  young," 
I  told  her.  "  People  talk  about  being  as  free  as  a 
bird.  But  I  can  tell  you  that  they  slave  from  dawn 
until  dark.  I  have  seen  a  mother  bird  at  dusk  giv- 
ing a  last  bite  to  one  squalling  baby  while  the 
father  fed  another." 

Lady  Crusoe  laid  down  her  work  and  looked  out 
over  the  hills.  "  The  father,"  she  said,  and  that  was 
all  for  a  long  time,  and  we  stitched  and  stitched, 
but  at  last  she  spoke  straight  from  her  thoughts: 
"  How  dear  your  husband  is  to  you !  " 

"  That's  what  husbands  are  made  for." 

"  Some  of  them  are  not,  dear,"  her  voice  was  hard, 
"some  of  them  expect  so  much,  and  give  so 

little " 

288 


LAD7  CRUSOE 

I  kept  still  and  presently  she  began  again. 
"  They  give  money — and  they  think  that  is — 
enough.  They  give  jewels — and  think  we  ought  to 
be  profoundly  grateful." 

"  Well,  my  experience,"  I  told  her,  "  is  that  the 
men  give  as  much  love  as  the  women " 

She  looked  at  me.     "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Love  costs  them  a  lot." 

"  In  what  way?  " 

"  They  work  for  us.  Now  there's  Billy's  grocery 
store.  If  Billy  didn't  have  me,  he'd  be  doing  things 
that  he  likes  better.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but 
Billy  wanted  to  study  law,  but  it  meant  years  of 
hard  work  before  he  could  make  a  cent,  and  he  and 
I  would  have  wasted  our  youth  in  waiting — and  so 
he  went  into  business — and  that's  a  big  thing  for  a 
man  to  do  for  a  woman — to  give  up  a  future  that 
he  has  hoped  for — and  that's  why  I  feel  that  I  can't 
do  enough  for  Billy " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  look  at  it  in  that 
way,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  were  big  and  bright. 
"Women  are  queens,  and  they  honor  men  when 
they  marry  them " 

"If  women  are  queens,"  I  told  her,  "men  are 
kings — Billy  honored  me " 

She  smiled  at  me.  "  Oh,  you  blessed  dear " 

she  said,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  came  over  and 
knelt  beside  me.  "What  would  you  think  of  a 

289 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

man  who  married  a  woman  whom  the  world  called 
beautiful  and  brilliant,  and  whom — whom  princes 

wanted  to  marry And  he  was  a  very  plain 

man,  except  that  he  had  a  lot  of  money — millions 
and  millions — and  after  he  married  the  woman 
whom  he  had  said  that  he  worshiped,  he  wanted  to 
make  just  an  every-day  wife  of  her.  He  wanted 
her  to  stay  at  home  and  look  after  his  house.  He 
told  her  one  night  that  it  would  be  a  great  happi- 
ness for  him  if  he  could  come  in  and  find  her  warm- 
ing— his  slippers.  And  he  said  that  his  ideal  of  a 
woman  was  one  who — who — held  a  child  in  her 
arms " 

I  looked  down  at  her.  "Well,  right  in  the  be- 
ginning," I  said,  "  I  should  like  to  know  if  the 
woman  loved  the  man " 

She  stared  at  me  and  then  she  stood  up.  "  If  she 
did,  what  then?  She  had  not  married  to  be — Ms 
slave " 

I  pointed  to  the  mother  robin  on  the  branch  be- 
low. "  I  wonder  if  she  calls  it  slavery !  You  see — 
she  is  so  busy — building  her  nest  she  hasn't  time 
to  think  whether  Cock  Robin  is  singing  fewer  love 
songs  than  he  sang  early  in  the  spring." 

She  laughed  and  was  down  on  her  knees  beside 
me  again.  "  Oh,  you  funny  little  practical  thing ! 
But  it  wasn't  because  I  missed  the  love  songs.  He 

290 


sang  them.     But  because  I  couldn't  be  an  every- 
day wife " 

"  What  kind  of  wife  did  you  want  to  be?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  travel  with  him  alone — I  planned 
a  honeymoon  in  the  desert,  and  we  had  it — and  I 
planned  after  that  to  sail  the  seas  to  the  land  of 
Nowhere — and  we  sailed — and  then — I  wanted  to 
go  to  the  high  plains — and  ride  and  camp — and  into 
the  forests  to  hunt  and  fish — but  he  wouldn't.  He 
said  that  we  had  wandered  enough.  He  wanted 
to  build  a  house — and  have  me  warm — his  slip- 
pers   

"And  so  you  quarreled?  " 

"  We  quarreled — great  hot  heavy  quarrels — and 
we  said  things — horrid  things — that  we  can't  for- 
give   " 

She  was  sobbing  on  my  shoulder  and  I  said 
softly :  "  Things  that  you  can't  forgive?  " 

"Yes.  And  that  lie  can't.  That's  why  I  ran 
away  from  him." 

I  waited. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it  to  see  him  going  around  with 
his  face  stern  and  set  and  not  like  my  lover's.  And 
he  didn't  speak  to  me  except  to  be  polite.  And  he 
asked  people  to  go  with  us — everywhere.  And  we 
were  never  alone " 

"What  had  you  said  to  make  him — like 
that?" 

291 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

She  raised  her  head.  "  I  told  him  that  I — hated 
him " 

"Oh,  oh " 

She  knelt  back  on  her  heels. 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  say,  wasn't  it? 
That's  why  I  ran  away.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I 
knew  it  was  a  thing  no  man — could — forgive " 

I  smoothed  her  hair  and  rocked  her  back  and 
forth  while  she  cried.  It  was  strange  how  much  of 
a  child  she  seemed  to  me.  And  I  was  only  the  wife 
of  a  country  grocer  and  lived  over  the  store,  and 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  name  was  known 
from  east  to  west,  and  all  around  the  world.  But 
you  see  she  hadn't  learned  to  live.  Neither  have 
I,  really.  But  Billy  has  taught  me  a  lot. 

I  think  it  was  a  comfort  for  her  to  feel  that  she 
had  confided  in  me.  But  she  made  me  promise  that 
whatever  happened  I  wouldn't  let  him  know. 

"  Unless  I — die,"  she  said,  and  she  was  as  white 
as  a  lily,  "unless  I  die,  and  then  you  can — set 
him — free " 

Billy  was  sorry  that  I  had  promised.  "  Some- 
how I  feel  responsible,  sweetheart,  and  I'll  bet  her 
poor  husband  is  almost  crazy." 

"  Would  you  be,  Billy?  " 

He  caught  me  to  him  so  quickly  that  he  almost 
shook  the  breath  out  of  me.  "Don't  ask  a  thing 
like  that,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  didn't  sound  like 

292 


LADY  CRUSOE 

his  own.  "  If  anything  should  happen  to  you — if 
anything  should  happen — I  should — I  should — oh, 
why  will  women  ask  things  like  that ?  " 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Billy  didn't  want  me 
out  of  his  sight.  He  even  hated  to  have  me  go  up  to 
the  Davenant  house  with  William  Watters.  "  Take 
care  of  her,  William,"  he  would  say,  and  stand 
looking  after  us. 

William  and  I  got  to  be  very  good  friends.  He 
was  a  wise  old  darky,  and  he  was  devoted  to  Lady 
Crusoe.  He  usually  served  tea  for  us  out  under 
the  trees,  unless  it  was  a  rainy  day,  and  then  we 
had  it  in  the  library. 

It  was  on  a  rainy  day  that  Lady  Crusoe  said :  "  I 
wonder  what  has  become  of  William.  I  haven't 
seen  him  since  you  came.  I  have  hunted  and  called, 
and  I  can't  find  him." 

He  appeared  at  tea  time,  however,  with  a  plate 
of  hot  waffles  with  powdered  sugar  between.  When 
his  mistress  asked  him  about  his  mysterious  dis- 
appearance, he  said  that  he  had  cleaned  the  attic. 

"  But,  William,  on  such  a  day?  " 

"  I  kain't  wuk  out  in  the  rain,  Miss  Lily,  so  I 
wuks  in " 

That  was  all  he  would  say  about  it,  and  after  wo 
had  had  our  tea,  she  said  to  me,  "  There  are  a  lot 
of  interesting  things  in  the  attic.  Let's  go  up  and 

see  what  Willie  has  been  doing " 

293 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

The  dim  old  place  was  as  shining  as  soap  and  wa- 
ter could  make  it,  and  there  was  the  damp  smell  of 
suds.  There  was  the  beat  of  the  rain  on  the  roof, 
and  the  splash  of  it  against  the  round  east  window. 
Through  the  west  window  came  a  pale  green  light, 
and  there  was  a  view  over  the  hills.  As  we  became 
accustomed  to  the  dimness  our  eyes  picked  out  the 
various  objects — an  old  loom  like  a  huge  spider 
under  a  peaked  gable,  a  chest  of  drawers  which 
would  have  set  a  collector  crazy,  Chippendale  chairs 
with  the  seats  out,  Windsor  chairs  with  the  backs 
broken,  gilt  mirror  frames  with  no  glass  in  them — 
boxes — books — bottles — all  the  flotsam  and  jetsam 
of  such  old  establishments.  Most  of  the  things  had 
been  set  back  against  the  wall,  but  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  was  an  object  which  I  took  at 
first  for  a  small  trunk. 

Lady  Crusoe  reached  it  first,  and  knelt  beside  it. 
She  gave  a  little  cry.  "  My  dear,  conie  here !  "  and 
I  went  to  her,  and  in  another  moment,  I,  too,  was  on 
my  knees.  For  the  dark  object  was  a  cradle — -a 
lovely  hooded  thing  of  mahogany,  in  which  the 
Davenants  had  been  rocked  for  generations. 

"  William  got  it  out,"  Lady  Crusoe  said,  "  ready 
to  be  carried  down.  Oh,  my  good  old  man  Friday ! 
Do  you  mind  if  I  cry  a  little,  you  very  dear?  " 

It  rained  a  great  deal  that  summer,  and  it  was 
hot  and  humid.  Billy  and  I  longed  for  the  cold 

294 


LADY  CRUSOE 

winds  that  sweep  across  the  sea  on  the  North 
Shore,  but  we  didn't  complain,  for  we  had  each 
other,  and  I  wouldn't  exchange  Billy  for  any  breeze 
that  blows. 

Lady  Crusoe  suffered  less  than  I,  for  she  was  on 
her  native  heath,  and  in  the  afternoon  when  we 
sewed  together  William  Walters  made  lemonade, 
and  in  the  evening  when  Billy  came  up  for  me  we 
sat  out  under  the  stars  until  whispers  of  wind 
stirred  the  trees,  and  then  we  went  away  and  left 
our  dear  lady  alone. 

As  the  time  went  on  we  hated  more  and  more  to 
leave  her,  but  she  was  very  brave  about  it.  "  I  have 
my  good  man  Friday,"  she  told  us,  "  to  protect  me, 
and  my  grandfather's  revolver." 

So  the  summer  passed,  and  the  fall  came,  and  the 
busy  robin  and  all  of  her  red-breasted  family 
started  for  the  South,  and  there  was  rain  and  more 
rain,  so  that  when  October  rolled  around  the  roads 
were  perfect  rivers  of  red  mud,  and  the  swollen 
streams  swept  under  the  bridges  in  raging  torrents 
of  terra-cotta,  and  the  sheep  on  the  hills  were 
pinker  than  ever.  There  was  no  lack  of  color  in 
those  gray  days,  for  the  trees  burst  through  the 
curtain  of  mist  in  great  splashes  of  red  and  green 
and  gold.  But  now  I  did  not  go  abroad  with 
William  Watters  behind  his  old  gray  mule,  for 
things  had  happened  which  kept  me  at  home. 

295 


It  was  on  a  rainy  November  night  that  I  came 
down  to  the  store  to  call  Billy  to  supper.  I  had 
brought  a  saucer  for  old  Tid,  the  store  cat,  and 
when  he  had  finished  Billy  had  cut  him  a  bit  of 
cheese  and  he  was  begging  for  it.  We  had  taught 
Tid  to  sit  up  and  ask,  and  he  looked  so  funny,  for  he 
is  fat  and  black  and  he  hates  to  beg,  but  he  loves 
cheese.  We  were  laughing  at  him  when  a  great 
flash  of  light  seemed  to  sweep  through  the  store, 
and  a  motor  stopped. 

Billy  went  forward  at  once.  The  front  door 
opened,  and  a  man  in  a  rain-coat  was  blown  in  by 
the  storm. 

"  Jove,  it's  a  wet  night ! "  I  heard  him  say,  and 
I  knew  it  wasn't  any  of  Billy's  customers  from 
around  that  part  of  the  country.  This  was  no 
drawling  Virginia  voice.  It  was  crisp  and  clear- 
cut  and  commanding. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  even  at  that  distance  I 
could  see  his  shining  blond  head.  He  towered 
above  Billy,  and  Billy  isn't  short.  "  I  wonder  if 
you  could  help  me,"  he  began,  and  then  he  hesitated, 
"  it  is  a  rather  personal  matter." 

"If  you'll  come  up-stairs,"  Billy  told  him, 
"  there'll  be  only  my  wife  and  me,  and  I  can  shut 
up  the  store  for  the  night." 

"  Good !  "  he  said,  and  I  went  ahead  of  them  with 
296 


LADY  CRUSOE 

old  Tid  following,  and  presently  the  men  arrived 
and  Billy  presented  the  stranger  to  me. 

He  told  us  at  once  what  he  wanted.  "  I  thought 
that  as  you  kept  the  store,  you  might  hear  the 
neighborhood  news.  I  have  lost — my  wife " 

"  Dead?  "  Billy  inquired  solicitously. 

"  No.  Several  months  ago  we  motored  down  into 
this  part  of  the  country.  Some  miles  from  here  I 
had  trouble  with  my  engine,  and  I  had  to  walk  to 
town  for  help.  When  I  came  back  my  wife  was 
gone " 

I  pinched  Billy  under  the  table.  "  Gone? "  I 
echoed. 

"  Yes.  She  left  a  note.  She  said  that  she  could 
catch  a  train  at  the  station  and  that  she  would  take 
it.  Some  one  evidently  gave  her  a  lift,  for  she  had 
her  traveling  bag  with  her.  She  said  that  she 
would  sail  at  once  for  France,  and  that  I  must  not 
try  to  follow  her.  Of  course  I  did  follow  her,  and  I 
searched  through  Europe,  but  I  found  no  trace,  and 
then  it  occurred  to  me  that  after  all  she  might  still 
be  in  this  part  of  the  country " 

I  held  on  to  Billy.  "  Had  you  quarreled  or  any- 
thing? " 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "  Things 
had  gone  wrong  somehow,"  he  said,  uncertainly,  "  I 
don't  know  why.  I  love  her." 

If  you  could  have  heard  him  say  it!  If  she 
297 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

could  have  heard  Mm !  There  was  a  silence  out  of 
which  I  said :  "  Did  you  ask  her  to  warm  your 
slippers?  " 

He  stared  at  me,  then  he  reached  out  his  hands 
across  the  table  and  caught  hold  of  mine  in  such  a 
strong  grip  that  it  hurt.  "  You've  seen  her,"  he 
said,  "  you've  seen  Tier f  " 

Then  I  remembered.  "  I  can't  say  any  more. 
You  see — I've  promised " 

"  That  you  wouldn't  tell  me?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "  If  she's 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  I'll  find  her."  And  I 
knew  that  he  would.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  you 
felt  wouldn't  know  there  were  obstacles  in  the  way 
when  he  went  after  the  thing  he  wanted. 

I  made  him  stay  to  supper.  It  was  a  drizzly  cold 
night  and  he  looked  very  tired. 

"  Jove,"  he  said,  "  you're  comfortable  here,  with 
your  fire  and  your  pussy-cat,  and  your  teakettle  on 
the  hearth !  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  I  like " 

"  You  wouldn't  like  living  over  a  grocery  store," 
I  told  him. 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Oh,  nobody  around  here  ever  has,  and  they  are 
all  descended  from  signers  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  and  back  of  that  from  William  the 
Conqueror,  and  they  stick  their  noses  in  the  air." 

298 


LADY  CRUSOE 

"  Shades  of  Jefferson! — why  should  they?  " 

"  They  shouldn't.    But  they  do " 

He  came  back  to  the  subject  of  his  wife.  "  I 
didn't  want  her  to  warm  my  slippers.  It  was  only 
that  I  wanted  her  to  feel  like  warming  them,"  he 
appealed  to  Billy,  and  Billy  nodded.  Billy  posi- 
tively purrs  when  I  make  him  comfortable  after  his 
day's  work.  He  says  that  it  is  the  homing  instinct 
in  men  and  that  women  ought  to  encourage  it. 

"  Does  she  warm  yours?  "  he  asked  Billy. 

"  Not  now,  she's  too  busy "  and  then  as  if  the 

stage  were  set  for  it,  there  came  from  the  next  room 
a  little,  little  cry. 

I  went  in  and  brought  out — Junior!  He  was 
only  a  month  old,  but  you  know  how  heavenly  sweet 
they  are  with  their  rose-leaf  skins,  and  their  little 
crumpled  hands  and  their  downy  heads — Junior's 
down  was  brown,  for  Billy  and  I  are  both  dark. 

"  You  see  he  keeps  me  busy,"  I  said. 

T  was  so  proud  I  am  perfectly  sure  it  stuck  out 
all  over  me,  and  as  for  Billy  he  beamed  on  us  in  a 
funny  fatherly  fashion  that  he  had  adopted  from 
the  moment  that  he  first  called  me  "  Little  Mother." 

"Do  you  wonder  that  she  hasn't  time  to  warm 
my  slippers?"  was  his  question. 

The  stranger  held  out  his  arms — "  Let  me  hold 
the  little  chap."  And  he  sat  there,  without  a 
smile,  looking  down  at  my  baby.  When  he  raised 

299 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

his  head  he  said  in  a  dry  sort  of  fashion,  "  I  thought 
the  pussy-cat  and  the  teakettle  were  enough — but 

this  seems  almost  too  good  to  be  true " 

I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  liked  him.  He 
seemed  so  big  and  fine — and  tender.  I  came  across 
a  poem  the  other  day,  and  he  made  me  think  of  it  : 

".    .    .    the  strong " 
The  Master  whispered,  "  are  the  tenderest!  " 

Before  he  went  away,  he  took  my  hand  in  his. 
"  I  want  you  to  play  a  game  with  me.  Do  you  re- 
member when  we  were  children  that  we  used  to 
hide  things,  and  then  guide  the  ones  who  hunted  by 
saying  '  warmer '  when  we  were  near  them,  and 
1  colder '  when  they  wandered  away?  Will  you  say 
'  warm  '  and  'cold'  to  me?  That  won't  be  break- 
ing your  promise,  will  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  let's  begin  now.  To-morrow  morning  I 
shall  go  to  the  north  and  east " 

"Cold!" 

"  To  the  south  and  west " 

"  Warmer." 

"Up  a  hill?" 

"Very  warm.  But  you  mustn't  ask  me  any 
more." 

"All  right.  But  I  am  coming  again,  and  we  will 
play  the  game." 

300 


LADY  CRUSOE 

Billy  went  down  with  him,  and  when  he  came 
back  we  stood  looking  into  the  fire,  and  he  said, 
"You  didn't  tell  him?" 

"  Of  course  not.  That's  the  lovely,  lovely  thing 
that  he  must  find  out  for  himself " 

The  next  day  I  went  to  see  Lady  Crusoe.  Will- 
iam Walters  took  me.  "  They's  a  man  been  hangin' 
round  this  mawniny  he  complained,  "an'  a 
dawg " 

"  What  kind  of  man,  William?  " 

"He's  huntin',  and  Miss  Lily  she  doan'  like 
things  killed " 

Half-way  up,  we  passed  the  man.  His  hat  came 
off  when  he  saw  me.  "  It's  cold  weather  we're  hav- 
ing," he  said  pleasantly. 

"  It's  getting  warmer,"  I  flung  back  at  him,  and 
William  drove  on  with  a  grunt. 

I  had  Junior  with  me,  and  when  I  reached  the 
house  I  went  straight  up-stairs.  In  the  very  center 
of  the  room  in  the  hooded  mahogany  cradle  was 
another  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  a  child.  But  this 
was  not  a  "  Junior." 

"  Robin-son,"  Lady  Crusoe  had  whispered,  when 
I  had  first  bent  over  her  and  had  asked  the  baby's 
name. 

"  Because  of  the  robins?  "  I  had  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  couldn't  call  him  Cru- 
soe, could  I?  " 

301 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

So  there  lie  lay,  little  Robinson  Crusoe,  in  a 
desert  expanse  of  polished  floor,  and  there  he 
crowed  a  welcome  to  my  own  beautiful  baby ! 

Lady  Crusoe  was  in  a  big  chair.  She  was  not 
strong,  and  William  Watters  had  brought  his  sister 
Mandy  to  wait  on  her.  She  was  very  pale,  this 
lovely  lady,  and  there  w^ere  shadows  under  her  eyes. 
As  I  sat  down  beside  her,  she  said :  "  I  shall  have  to 
have  your  Billy  sell  some  more  things  for  me.  You 
see  the  servants  must  be  paid,  and  my  Robin  must 
be  comfy.  There's  a  console-table  that  ought  to 
bring  a  lot  from  a  city  dealer." 

"  I  wish  that  you  needn't  be  worried,"  I  said. 
"  I  wish — I  wish — that  you'd  let  me  send  for 
Robin's  father " 

"  Robin's  father ! "  she  drew  a  quick  breath, 
"how  funny  it  sounds! — Robin's  father " 

I  waited  for  that  to  sink  in,  and  then  I  said :  "  I 
know  how  you  feel.  When  I  think  of  Billy  as 
Junior's  father  it  is  different  from  thinking  of  him 
as  my  husband,  and  it  makes  a  funny  sensation  in 
my  throat  as  if  I  wanted  to  cry " 

"You've  nothing  to  cry  about/'  she  told  me 
fiercely,  "nothing,  but  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I 
could  weep  rivers  of  tears !  " 

I  realized  that  I  must  be  careful,  so  I  changed 
the  subject.  "  William,"  I  said  after  a  pause,  "  is 

302 


LADY  CRUSOE 

worrying  about  a  man  who  is  hunting  over  the 
grounds." 

"  He  told  me.  I  can't  understand  why  any  one 
should  trespass  when  the  place  is  posted.  I  sent 
William  to  tell  him,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  have  any 
effect.  I  haven't  heard  him  shoot.  When  I  do,  I 
shall  go  out  and  speak  to  him  myself." 

I  wondered  if  Fate  were  going  to  settle  it  in  that 
way,  and  I  wondered  too  if  it  would  be  breaking 
my  promise  to  tell  him  to  shoot!  We  sewed  in 
silence  for  a  while,  but  Lady  Crusoe  was  restless. 
At  last  she  wandered  to  the  window.  It  was  a  long 
French  window  which  opened  on  a  balcony.  She 
parted  the  velvet  curtains  and  looked  out.  "  There 
he  is  again,"  she  said,  with  irritation,  "  by  the  gate 
with  his  gun  and  dog " 

I  rose  and  joined  her.  The  man  stood  by  the 
gate-post,  and  the  dog  sat  at  his  feet.  They  might 
have  been  a  pair  of  statues  planted  on  the  round 
top  of  the  hill,  with  the  valleys  rolling  away  be- 
neath them  and  the  mountain  peaks  and  the  golden 
sky  beyond.  Lady  Crusoe  was  much  stirred  up 
over  it. 

"I'll  send  William  again,  when  he  comes  with 
our  tea.  I  won't  have  my  wild  things  shot.  There 
was  a  covey  of  partridges  on  the  lawn  this  morn- 
ing, and  my  squirrels  come  up  to  the  porch  to  be 

303 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

fed.  Men  are  cruel  creatures  with  their  guns  and 
their  traps." 

"  Women  are  cruel,  too/'  I  told  her,  and  now  I 
took  my  courage  in  my  hands.  "  Suppose,  oh,  sup- 
pose, that  the  mother  robin  had  stolen  her  nest  and 
had  never  let  the  father  robin  share  her  happiness, 
wouldn't  you  call  that  cruel?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  her  voice  shook. 

"  You  have  stolen  your — nest  — 

"Why  shouldn't  I  steal  it?  I  had  always  felt 
that  when  I  wanted  a  real  home  it  would  be  here. 
And  the  time  had  come  when  I  wanted  a — home. 
So  I  planned  to  come — with  him.  It  was  to  be  my 
surprise — he  doesn't  even  know  that  the  old  place 
belongs  to  me.  He  thought  it  was  just  another  of 
my  restless  demands,  but  he  let  me  have  my  way. 
We  had  friends  with  us  when  we  started ;  they  left 
us  at  Washington.  It  was  after  we  were  alone 
that — we  quarreled — and  I  ran  away.  I  left  a  note 
and  told  him  that  I  had  gone  to  France.  I  sup- 
pose he  followed  and  didn't  find  me.  I  am  not  even 
sure  that  he  wants  to  find  me." 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  found?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I'd  rather  not  talk  about 
it." 

William  came  in  with  the  tea  and  was  told  to 
send  the  intruder  off. 

"  I  done  sent  him,  Miss  Lily,"  he  said,  with  dig- 
304 


LADY  CRUSOE 

nity,  "  but  he  ain't  gwine  to  go.    He  say  he  ain't, 
and  I  kain't  make  him." 

She  went  again  to  the  window,  and  this  time 
she  drew  back  the  faded  hangings  and  stepped  out 
on  the  balcony. 

I  heard  her  utter  a  cry;  then  the  whole  room 
seemed  to  whirl  about  me  as  she  came  in,  dragging 
the  curtains  together  behind  her.  Every  drop  of 
blood  was  drained  from  her  face. 

"  William,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  that  man — is 
coining  toward  the  house!  If  he  asks  for  me — 
I  am  not — at  home." 

"  Nawm,"  and  William  went  down  to  answer  the 
blows  of  the  brass  knocker. 

We  heard  him  open  the  door,  we  heard  the  crisp, 
quick  voice.  We  heard  William's  stately  response. 
Then  the  quick  voice  said :  "  Will  you  tell  your  mis- 
tress that  I  shall  wait?  " 

William  came  up  with  the  message.  "  He's  set- 
tin'  on  the  po'ch,  an'  he  looks  like  he  was  makin' 
out  to  set  there  all  night." 

"Let  him  sit,"  said  Lady  Crusoe  inelegantly. 
"  Lock  all  of  the  doors,  William,  and  serve  the  tea." 

She  sat  there  and  drank  a  cup  of  it  scalding  hot, 
with  her  head  in  the  air  and  her  foot  tapping  the 
floor.  But  I  couldn't  drink  a  drop.  I  was  just 
sick  with  the  thought  of  how  he  loved  her,  and  of 
how  she  had  hardened  her  heart 

305 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  The  tears 
rolled  down  my  cheeks.  Lady  Crusoe  set  her  cup 
on  the  tray  and  stared  at  me  in  amazement. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  you — when  he  loves  you?  " 
I  don't  know  how  I  dared  say  it,  for  her  eyes 
were  blazing  in  her  white  face,  and  my  heart  was 
thumping,  but  there  was  Robinson  Crusoe  crowing 
in  his  hooded  cradle,  and  Robin's  father  was  on  the 
front  step,  with  the  old  oak  door  shut  and  barred 
against  him. 

She  leaned  forward,  and  I  knew  what  was  com- 
ing.    "  How  did  you  know  it  was — my  husband?  " 
My  eyes  met  hers  squarely.     "He  came  to  the 
store.     He  was  looking  for  you." 

"And  you  told  him  that  I  was  here?  " 
"  No.     I  wanted  to.    But  I  had  promised." 
For  a  little  while  neither  of  us   spoke.     The 
silence  was  broken  by  a  thud,  as  if  a  flying  squirrel 
had  dropped  from  the  roof  to  the  balcony.    A  stick 
of  wood  fell  apart  in  the  grate,  and  the  crow  of  the 
baby  in  the  hooded  cradle  was  answered  by  the 
baby  on  my  lap. 

Lady  Crusoe  hugged  her  knees  with  her  white 
arms  as  if  she  were  cold,  although  the  room  was 
hot  with  the  blazing  fire.  "  I  think  you  might  have 
told  me.  It  would  have  been  the  friendly  thing  to 

have  told  me " 

306 


LADT  CRUSOE 

"  Billy  thought  it  wasn't  best." 
"  What  had  Billy  to  do  with  it?  " 
"  Billy  has  everything  to  do  with  me.     I  talked 
it  over  with  him — and — and  Billy's  such  a  darling 


to  talk  things  over " 

I  broke  down  and  sobbed  and  sobbed,  and  the 
tears  dripped  on  Junior's  precious  head.  And  at 
last  she  said,  her  face  softened,  "  You  silly  little 
thing,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  If  it  were  Billy,  I  should  ask  him  in — and  show 
him — the  baby " 

"  If  it  were  Billy,  you  would  set  your  heart  un- 
der his  heel  for  him  to  step  on.  I  am  not  like 
that " 

Another  squirrel  dropped  to  the  balcony.  The 
sun  was  setting,  and  between  the  velvet  curtains  I 
could  see  it  blood-red  behind  the  hills. 

Lady  Crusoe  rose,  pacing  the  room  restlessly. 
The  wind  rising  rattled  the  long  windows.  A 
shadow  blotted  out  the  sun. 

"  I  suppose  if  you  were  I,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  you'd  take  your  baby  in  your  arms,  and  go  down 
and  say  to  that  man  on  the  steps,  '  Come  in  and  be 
lord  of  the  manor  and  the  ruler  of  your  wife  and 
child/  " 

I  held  Junior  close  and  my  voice  trembled.  "  I 
should  never  say  a  thing  like  that  to — Billy " 

"  What  would  you  say?  " 
307 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

"I  should  say" — I  choked  over  it,  and  broke 
down  at  the  end — "  oh,  lover,  lover,  this  is  your 
son — and  I  am  his  happy  mother " 

She  stopped  in  front  of  me  and  stood  looking 
down,  with  the  anger  all  gone  from  her  eyes.  Then, 
before  she  could  turn  or  cry  out,  the  long  windows 
were  struck  open  by  something  that  was  stronger 
than  the  wind.  There  had  been  no  flying  squirrels 
on  the  balcony,  and  the  shadow  which  had  hidden 
the  sun  was  the  breadth  and  height  of  the  big  man 
who  stood  between  the  velvet  curtains !  He  crossed 
the  room  at  a  stride. 

"  Did  you  think  that  bolts  and  bars  could  keep 
me  from  you?  "  he  asked,  and  took  Lady  Crusoe's 
hands  in  a  tight  grip  and  drew  her  toward  him. 
She  resisted  for  a  moment.  Then  her  white  slen- 
derness  was  crushed  in  his  hungry  arms. 

Well,  as  soon  as  I  could  gather  up  Junior  and 
his  belongings,  I  went  down  to  wait  for  Billy.  But 
before  I  went  I  saw  her  drop  on  her  knees  beside 
the  hooded  cradle  and  lift  out  little  Robin,  and, 
still  kneeling,  hold  him  up  toward  his  father,  as 
the  nun  holds  up  Galahad  in  the  Holy  Grail. 

And  what  do  you  think  I  heard  her  say? 

"  Oh,  lover,  lover,  this  is  your  son — and  I  am  his 
happy  mother!" 

Billy  came  in  glowing  from  his  walk  in  the  sharp 
air,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  good  it  seemed  to  feel 

308 


LADY  CRUSOE 

his  cold  cheek  against  my  cheek,  and  his  warm  lips 
on  mine.  We  were  a  rapturous  trio  in  front  of  the 
library  fire,  and  there  we  were  joined  presently  by 
the  rapturous  trio  from  above  stairs.  They  treated 
Billy  and  me  as  if  we  were  a  pair  of  guardian 
angels.  Then  we  had  dinner  together,  with  Mandy 
and  William  in  the  background  beaming. 

And  that  night  I  told  Billy  all  about  it.  "  Isn't 
it  beautiful,  Billy?  They  are  going  to  live  on  the 
old  Davenant  place,  and  it  is  to  be  their  home." 

Everybody  calls  on  us  now.  You  see,  Lady  Cru- 
soe's family  is  older  than  any  of  the  others,  and 
then  there's  her  husband's  money.  And  I  shine  in 
her  reflected  light,  for  our  friendship,  as  she  says, 
is  founded  on  a  rock.  But  Billy  says  it  is  founded 
on  a  wreck.  Yet  while  he  jokes  about  it,  I  know 
that  he  is  proud  of  his  friendship  with  Robin's 
father.  And  when  the  spring  comes,  we  are  to  take 
old  Tid  and  our  blessed  Junior  and  our  family  ef- 
fects to  an  adorable  cottage  with  a  garden  on  all 
four  sides  of  it  and  set  well  back  from  the  road. 
You  see,  we  feel  that  we  can  afford  it,  for  we  have 
the  exclusive  business  of  supplying  the  needs  of  the 
Davenant  estate,  and  we  are  thus  financially  on  our 
feet 


309 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

MRS.  CISSY  BEALE  and  her  daughter  Cecily  sat 
together  in  the  latter's  bedroom — a  bewitching 
apartment,  in  which  pale-gray  paper  and  pale-gray 
draperies  formed  an  effective  background  for  the 
rosewood  furniture  and  the  French  mirrors  and 
tapestried  screens. 

Between  the  two  women  was  a  bassinet  and  a 
baby. 

"  You  act,"  said  Cecily,  "  as  if  you  were  sorry 
about — the  baby." 

Her  mother,  who  lay  stretched  at  ease  on  a  pil- 
lowed couch,  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  sorry  about  the  baby — she's  a  darling — 
but  you  needn't  think  I'm  going  to  be  called  '  grand- 
mother,' Cecily.  A  grandmother  is  a  person  who 
settles  down.  I  don't  expect  to  settle  down.  My 
life  has  been  hard.  I  struggled  and  strove  through 
all  those  awful  years  after  your  father — left  me.  I 
educated  you  and  Bob.  And  now  you've  both  mar- 
ried well,  and  I've  a  bit  of  money  ahead  from  my 
little  book.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  can  have 
leisure  and  pretty  clothes ;  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  feel  young;  and  then,  absolutely  without 

310 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

warning,  you  come  back  from  Europe  with  your 
beautiful  Surprise,  and  expect  me  to  live  up  to 


"  Oh,  no  !  "  Cecily  protested. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  insisted  little  Mrs.  Beale.  She 
sat  up  and  gazed  at  her  daughter  accusingly. 
With  the  lace  of  her  boudoir  cap  framing  her  small, 
fair  face,  she  looked  really  young  —  as  young  almost 
as  the  demure  Cecily,  who,  in  less  coquettish  garb, 
was  taking  her  new  motherhood  very  seriously. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  Mrs.  Beale  repeated.  "  I  know 
just  what  you  expect  of  me.  You  expect  me  to  put 
on  black  velvet  and  old  lace  and  diamonds.  I 
shan't  dare  to  show  you  my  new  afternoon  frock  — 
it's  red,  Cecily,  geranium  red;  I  shan't  dare  to  wear 
even  the  tiniest  slit  in  my  skirts;  I  shan't  dare  to 
wear  a  Bulgarian  sash  or  a  Kussian  blouse,  or  a 
low  neck  —  without  expecting  to  hear  some  one  say, 
disapprovingly,  'And  she's  a  grandmother!  '  "  She 
paused,  and  Cecily  broke  in  tumultuously  : 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  proud  of  —  the  baby." 

"No,  I'm  not  proud."  Mrs.  Beale  thrust  her 
toes  into  a  pair  of  silver-embroidered  Turkish  slip- 
pers and  stood  up.  "  I'm  not  proud  just  at  this 
moment,  Cecily.  You  see  —  there's  Valentine  Lan- 
dry." 

"Mother  -  !" 

"  Now  please  don't  say  it  that  way,  Cecily,  He's 
311 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

half  in  love  with  me,  and  I'm  beginning  to  like  him 
awfully.  I've  never  had  a  bit  of  romance  in  my 
life.  I  married  your  father  when  I  was  too  young 
to  know  my  own  mind,  and  he  was  much  older  than 
I.  Then  came  the  years  of  struggle  after  he  went 
away.  ...  I  was  a  good  wife  and  a  good 
mother.  I  worshiped  you  and  Bob,  and  I  gave  my 
youth  for  you.  I  never  thought  of  any  other  man 
while  your  father  lived,  even  though  he  did  not  be- 
long to  me.  And  now  he  is  dead.  You'll  never 
know — I  hope  you  may  never  know — what  drudgery 
means  as  I  have  known  it.  I've  written  my  poor 
little  screeds  when  I  was  half -dead  with  fatigue; 
I've  been  out  in  cold  and  rain  to  get  news;  I've 
interviewed  all  sorts  of  people  when  I've  hated 
them  and  hated  the  work.  And  if  now  I  want  to 
have  my  little  fling,  why  not?  Everybody  effer- 
vesces some  time.  This  is  my  moment — and  you 
can't  expect  me  to  spoil  it  by  playing  the  devoted 
grandmother." 

The  baby  was  wailing,  a  little  hungry  call,  which 
made  her  mother  take  her  up  and  say,  hastily :  "  It's 
time  to  feed  her.  You  won't  mind,  mother?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  mind,"  said  the  little  lady.  "  I  don't 
like  that  Madonna  effect,  with  the  baby  in  your 
arms.  It  makes  me  feel  horribly  frivolous  and 
worldly,  Cecily.  But  it  doesn't  change  my  mind 
a  bit." 

312 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

After  a  pause,  the  Madonna-creature  asked, 
"  Who  is  Valentine  Landry?  " 

Mrs.  Beale  had  her  saucy  little  cap  off,  and  was 
*>i'(ishing  out  her  thin,  light  locks  in  which  the  gray 
showed  slightly.  But  she  stopped  long  enough  to 
explain.  "  He  isn't  half  as  sentimental  as  his 
name.  I  met  him  in  Chicago  at  the  Warburtons', 
just  before  I  made  a  success  of  my  book.  I  was 
very  tired,  and  he  cheered  me  a  lot.  He's  from 
Denver,  and  he  made  his  money  in  mines.  He 
hasn't  married,  because  he  hasn't  had  time.  We're 
awfully  good  friends,  but  he  doesn't  know  my  age. 
He  knows  that  I  have  a  daughter,  but  not  a  grand- 
daughter. He  thinks  of  me  as  a  young  woman — 
not  as  a  grandmother-creature  in  black  silk  and 
mitts " 

"  Mother!  nobody  expects  you  to  wear  black  silk 
and  mitts " 

"  Well,  you  expect  me  to  have  a  black-silk-and- 
mitt  mind.  You  know  you  are  thinking  this  very 
minute  that  there  is  no  idiot  like  an  old  one — 
Cecily " 

The  girl  flushed.  "I  don't  think  you  are  quite 
kind,  mother." 

Mrs.  Beale  laughed  and  forgot  to  be  cynical.  "  I 
know  what  you'd  like  to  have  me,  dearie,  but  this  is 
my  moment  of  emancipation."  She  crossed  the 
room  and  looked  down  at  the  tiny  bit  of  humanity 

313 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

curled  like  a  kitten  in  the  curve  of  her  daughter's 
arm.  "  I'm  not  going  to  be  your  grandmother,  yet, 
midget,"  she  announced,  with  decision.  Then, 
"  Cecily,  I  think  when  she's  old  enough  I  shall  have 
her  call  me — Cupid " 

And  laughing  in  the  face  of  her  daughter's  horri- 
fied protest,  the  mutinous  grandparent  retired  pre- 
cipitately to  her  own  room. 

Three  hours  later,  Mrs.  Cissy  Beale  went  forth 
to  conquer,  gowned  in  a  restaurant  frock  of  shadow 
lace  topped  by  a  black  tulle  hat. 

Valentine  Landry,  greeting  her  in  Cecily's  white- 
and-gold  drawing-room,  was  breezy  and  radiant. 
"  You're  as  lovely  as  ever,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her 
hand ;  "  perhaps  a  bit  lovelier  because  you  are  glad 
to  see  me." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  assured  him ;  "  and  it  is  so  nice 
to  have  you  come  before  the  summer  is  at  an  end. 
We  can  have  a  ride  out  into  Westchester,  and  come 
back  by  daylight  to  dinner." 

"And  no  chaperons?  " 

"  No."  She  was  looking  up  at  Mm  a  little  wist- 
fully. "We  know  each  other  too  well  to  have 
to  drag  in  a  lot  of  people,  don't  we?  It  is  the 
men  whom  women  trust  with  whom  they  go 
alone." 

He  met  her  glance  gravely.  "Do  you  know," 
he  said,  "  that  you  have  the  sweetest  way  of  putting 

314 


things?  A  man  simply  lias  to  come  up  to  your  ex- 
pectations. He'd  as  soon  think  of  disappointing  a 
baby  as  of  disappointing  you." 

His  selection  of  a  simile  was  unfortunate.  Mrs. 
Boale's  eyes  became  fixed  upon  a  refractory  button 
of  her  glove. 

"  Please  help  me,"  she  said ;  "  your  fingers  are 
stronger,"  and  as  he  bent  above  her  hand  she  forgot 
the  baby,  forgot  her  new  estate,  forgot  everything 
except  the  joy  she  felt  at  having  his  smooth  gray 
head  so  close  to  her  own. 

When  he  had  her  safely  beside  him  in  his  big  car 
he  asked,  "  What  made  you  run  away  from  me  in 
Chicago?  " 

"  My  daughter  came  home  from  Europe." 

"  I  can't  quite  think  of  you  with  a  grown  daugh- 
ter." 

"  Cecily's  a  darling."  Mrs.  Beale's  voice  held 
no  enthusiasm. 

Landry,  noting  her  tone,  looked  faintly  surprised. 
"You  and  she  must  have  great  good  times  to- 
gether." 

"Oh,  yes " 

Mrs.  Beale  wished  that  he  wouldn't  talk  about 
Cecily.  Cecily  had  married  before  good  times  were 
possible.  They  had  never  played  together — she 
and  the  little  daughter  for  whom  she  had  toiled 
and  sacrificed. 

315 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Landry's  voice  broke  in  upon  her  meditations: 
"  I  should  like  to  meet  Cecily." 

Mrs.  Beale  switched  him  away  from  the  topic  ex- 
peditiously.  He  should  not  see  her  as  yet  in  the 
bosom  of  her  family.  He  should  not.  He  should 
not  see  Cecily  with  her  air  of  mature  motherliness. 
He  should  not  see  Victor,  Cecily's  husband,  who 
was  ten  years  older  than  Cecily  and  only  ten  years 
younger  than  herself.  He  should  not  hear  her  big 
son  Bob  call  her  "  Grandma."  He  should  not  gaze 
upon  the  pretty  deference  of  Bob's  little  wife  to- 
ward the  queen-dowager ! 

Dining  later  opposite  Landry  in  a  great  golden 
palace,  Cissy  seemed  like  some  gay  tropical  bird. 
In  her  new  and  lovely  clothes  she  was  very  pretty, 
very  witty,  almost  girlishly  charming.  Yet  Landry 
was  conscious  of  a  vague  feeling  of  disappointment. 
She  had  been  more  serenely  satisfying  in  Chicago — 
not  so  brilliantly  hard,  not  so  persistently  viva- 
cious. How  could  he  know  that  the  change  was 
one  of  desperation?  Cissy,  as  grandmother,  felt 
that  she  must  prove,  even  to  herself,  that  she  was 
not  yet  a  back  number. 

With  this  rift  in  the  lute  of  their  budding 
romance,  they  ate  and  drank  and  went  to  the  play 
and  had  what  might  otherwise  have  been  an  en- 
chanted ride  home  in  the  moonlight.  But  when 
Landry  said  "  Good-night "  Cissy  felt  the  loss  of 

316 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

something  in  his  manner.  His  greeting  that  after- 
noon had  had  in  it  something  almost  of  tender- 
ness; his  farewell  was  commonplace  and  slightly 
constrained. 

As  Mrs.  Beale  went  through  the  dimly  lighted 
hall  to  her  room,  she  met  Cecily  in  a  flowing  gar- 
ment, pacing  back  and  forth  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms. 

"  She  isn't  well,"  Cecily  whispered,  as  the  little 
lady  in  the  lace  frock  questioned  her.  "I  don't 
know  whether  I  ought  to  call  a  doctor  or  not." 

Mrs.  Beale  poked  the  tiny  mite  with  an  expert 
finger.  "  I'll  give  her  a  drink  of  hot  water  with 
a  drop  of  peppermint  in  it,"  she  said,  "  as  soon  as  I 
get  my  hat  off,  and  you'd  better  go  back  to  bed, 
Cecily ;  you  aren't  well  enough  to  worry  with  her." 

Cecily  looked  relieved.  "  I  was  worried,"  she 
confessed.  "  It's  nurse's  night  out  and  Victor  had 
to  go  to  a  board  meeting  unexpectedly — and  with 
you  away — I  lost  my  nerve.  It  seemed  dreadful  to 
be  alone,  mother." 

Mrs.  Boale  knew  how  dreadful  it  was.  She  had 
carried  the  wailing  Cecily  in  her  arms  night  after 
night  in  the  weeks  which  followed  the  crushing 
knowledge  of  her  husband's  infidelity.  But  she 
had  carried  a  heavier  burden  than  the  child — the 
burden  of  poverty,  of  desertion,  of  an  unknown 

future. 

317 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

But  these  things  were  not  to  be  voiced.  "You 
go  to  bed,  Cecily,"  she  said.  "I'll  look  after 
her." 

Walking  the  floor  later  with  the  baby  in  her  arms, 
Mrs.  Beale's  mind  was  on  Landry.  "  Heavens !  if 
he  could  see  me  now ! "  was  her  shocked  thought, 
as  she  stopped  in  front  of  a  mirror  to  survey  the 
picture  she  made. 

Her  hair  was  down  and  the  grayest  lock  of  all 
showed  plainly.  She  had  discarded  frills  and 
furbelows  and  wore  a  w^arm  gray  wrapper.  She 
looked  nice  and  middle-aged,  yet  carried,  withal,  a 
subtle  air  of  girlishness — would  carry  it,  in  spite 
of  storm  or  stress,  until  the  end,  as  the  sign  and 
seal  of  her  undaunted  spirit. 

The  baby  stirred  in  her  arms,  and  again  Mrs. 
Beale  went  back  and  forth,  crooning  the  lullaby 
with  which  she  had  once  put  her  own  babies  to 
bed. 

In  the  morning  the  baby  was  much  better,  but 
Mrs.  Beale  was  haggard.  She  stayed  in  bed  until 
eleven  o'clock,  however.  Cecily,  coming  in  at 
twelve,  found  her  ready  to  go  out.  In  response  to 
an  inquiry,  Mrs.  Beale  spoke  of  a  luncheon  engage- 
ment with  Valentine  Landry. 

"  Mother — are  you  going  to  marry  him?  " 

Cissy,  studying  the  adjustment  of  her  veil,  con- 
fessed, "  He  hasn't  asked  me." 

318 


A.  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

"  But  he  will " 


Mrs.  Beale  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Who 
knows?  " 

In  the  weeks  which  followed,  the  little  lady  was 
conscious  that  things  were  not  drawing  to  a  com- 
fortable climax.  By  all  the  rules  of  the  game, 
Landry  should  long  ago  have  declared  himself. 
But  he  seemed  to  be  slipping  more  and  more  into 
the  fatal  r61e  of  good  friend  and  comrade. 

Cissy's  pride  would  not  let  her  admit,  even  to 
herself,  that  she  had  failed  to  attract  at  the  final 
moment.  But  there  was  something  deeper  than  her 
pride  involved,  and  she  found  her  days  restless  and 
her  nights  sleepless.  One  night  in  the  dense  dark- 
ness she  faced  the  truth  relentlessly.  "  You're  in 
love,  Cissy  Beale,"  she  told  herself,  scornfully. 
"  You're  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  your  life — and 
you  a — grandmother !  " 

Then  she  turned  over  on  her  pillow,  hid  her  face 
in  its  white  warmth,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

In  the  meantime  the  baby  drooped.  Cecily,  wor- 
ried, consulted  her  mother  continually.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  Mrs.  Beale  lived  a  double  life. 
From  noon  until  midnight  she  was  of  to-day — 
smartly  gowned,  girlish ;  from  midnight  until  dawn 
she  was  of  yesterday — waking  from  hor  fitful  slum- 
bers at  the  first  wailing  note,  presiding  in  gray 

310 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

gown  and  slippers  over  strange  brews  of  catnip  and 
of  elderflower. 

Cecily's  doctor,  being  up-to-date,  remonstrated 
at  this  return  to  the  primitive,  but  was  forced  to 
admit,  after  the  baby  had  come  triumphantly 
through  a  half-dozen  critical  attacks,  that  Cissy's 
back-to-grandma  methods  were  effective. 

It  was  on  a  morning  following  one  of  these 
struggles  that  Cissy  said  to  her  daughter,  wearily, 
"  I  can't  escape  it " 

"Escape  what?"  demanded  Cecily,  who,  in  the 
pale-gray  bedroom  was  endeavoring  to  observe  the 
doctor's  injunction  to  let  the  wailing  baby  stay  in 
her  bassinet,  instead  of  walking  the  floor  with 
her. 

"The  black-silk-and-mitt  destiny,"  said  the  de- 
pressed lady. 

"  What  has  happened?  "  Cecily  demanded. 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  responded  her  weary 
little  mother,  and  refused  to  discuss  the  matter 
further. 

But  to  herself  she  was  beginning  to  admit  that 
she  had  lost  Landry.  An  hour  later  she  had  a  tele- 
phone message  from  him. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  for  a  last  ride  to- 
gether," he  said.  "  1  leave  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow !  "    Her  voice  showed  her  dismay. 

"  But  why  this  sudden  decision " 

320 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

"  I  have  played  long  enough,"  he  said ;  "  business 
calls " 

As  Mrs.  Beale  made  ready  for  the  ride  she  sur- 
veyed herself  wistfully  in  her  mirror.  There  were 
shadows  under  her  eyes,  and  faint  little  lines  to- 
ward the  corners  of  her  lips — it  even  seemed  to  her 
that  her  chin  sagged.  She  had  a  sudden  sense  of 
revolt.  "  If  I  were  young,  really  young,"  she 
thought,  "  he  would  not  be  going  away " 

With  this  idea  firmly  fixed  in  her  mind,  she  ex- 
erted herself  to  please  him;  and  her  little  laugh 
made  artificial  music  in  his  ears,  her  fixed  smile 
wore  upon  his  nerves,  her  staccato  questions  irri- 
tated him. 

Again  they  had  dinner  together,  and  as  she  sat 
opposite  him,  gorgeous  and  gay  in  her  gown  of 
geranium  red,  he  began  to  talk  with  her  of  her 
daughter. 

"  I've  never  met  her.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that 
you  might  have  let  me  see  her " 

Cissy  flushed.  "  She's  such  a  great  grown-up/* 
she  said.  "  Somehow  when  I'm  with  her  I  feel — 
old " 

"You  will  never  seem  old,"  he  said,  with  the 
nearest  approach  to  tenderness  that  had  softened 
his  voice  for  days.  "  You  have  in  you  the  spirit  of 
eternal  youth " 

Then  he  floundered  on.  "But  a  mother  and  a 
321 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

daughter — when  you  used  to  speak  of  her  in  Chi- 
cago, it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see  you  together, 
and  I  liked  the  sweetness  and  womanliness  of  the 
thought ;  but  I  have  never  seen  you  together." 

With  a  sense  of  recklessness  upon  her,  Cissy  sud- 
denly determined  to  tell  him  the  truth.  "  Cecily 
hasn't  been  going  out  much.  You  see,  there's  the 
baby " 

He  stared.     "  The  baby ?  " 

"  Her  baby— Cecily's " 

<(  Then  you're  a  grandmother?  " 

It  seemed  to  Cissy  that  the  whole  restaurant  rang 
with  the  emphasis  of  the  words.  Yet  he  had  not 
spoken  loudly;  not  a  head  was  turned  in  their  di- 
rection ;  even  the  waiter  stood  unmoved. 

When  she  came  to  herself  Landry  was  laughing 
softly.  "When  are  you  going  to  let  me  see — the 
baby ?" 


"  Never 


"  Why  not?  " 

Cissy  went  on  to  her  doom.  "Because  you'll 
want  to  put  me  on  the  shelf  like  all  the  rest  of 
them.  You'll  want  to  see  me  with — my  hair — 
parted — and  spectacles.  And  my  eyes  are  per- 
fectly good — and  my  hair  is  my  own " 

She  stopped.  Landry  was  surveying  her  with 
hard  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  love — the  baby ?  " 

322 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

Cissy  shrugged.  "  Perhaps.  I  don't  know  yet. 
Some  day  I  may  when  I  haven't  anything  to  do  but 
sit  in  a  chimney-corner." 

Thus  spoke  Cissy  Beale,  making  of  herself  a 
heartless  creature,  flinging  back  into  the  face  of 
Valentine  Landry  his  most  cherished  ideals. 

But  what  did  it  matter?  She  had  known  from 
the  moment  of  her  confession  that  he  would  be  re- 
pelled. What  man  could  stand  up  in  the  face  of 
the  world  and  marry  a  grandmother! — the  idea 
was  preposterous. 

She  finished  dinner  with  her  head  in  the  air ;  she 
was  hypocritically  lively  during  the  drive  home; 
she  said  "  Good-night "  and  "  Good-bye  "  without 
feeling,  and  went  up-stairs  with  her  heart  like  lead 
to  find  the  nurse  weeping  wildly  on  the  first  land- 
ing. 

The  baby,  it  appeared,  was  very  ill.  And  the 
baby's  father  and  mother,  having  left  the  little 
cherub  sleeping  peacefully,  were  motoring  some- 
where in  the  wide  spaces  of  the  world.  The  family 
doctor  was  out.  She  had  called  up  another  doctor, 
and  he  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could.  But  in 
the  meantime  the  baby  was  dying 

"  Nonsense,  Kate,"  said  Cissy  Beale,  and  pulling 
off  her  gloves  as  she  ran,  she  made  for  the  pale- 
gray  room. 

Now,  as  it  happened,  Valentine  Landry,  driving 
323 


away  in  a  priggish  state  of  mind,  was  suddenly 
overwhelmed  by  miserable  remorse.  Reviewing  the 
evening,  he  seemed  to  see,  for  the  first  time,  the  un- 
happiness  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  woman  who  had 
borne  herself  so  bravely.  In  a  sudden  moment  of 
illumination  he  realized  all  that  she  must  have  been 
feeling.  Perhaps  it  had  not  been  heartlessness ; 
perhaps  it  had  been — heart  hunger. 

Leaning  forward,  he  spoke  to  his  chauffeur. 
They  stopped  at  the  first  drug-store,  and  Landry 
called  up  Cissy.  Her  voice  from  the  other  end  an- 
swered, sharply,  then  broke  as  he  gave  his  name. 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  doctor,"  she  said.  "  Can 
you  come  back,  please?  The  baby,  oh,  the  baby  is 
very  ill ! " 

Five  minutes  later  the  nurse  let  him  into  the 
house.  He  followed  her  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
nursery.  Cissy  sat  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 
The  baby  was  in  a  blanket  and  Cissy  was  in  her 
gray  wrapper.  She  had  donned  it  while  the  nurse 
held  the  baby  in  the  hot  bath  which  saved  its  life. 
Cissy's  hair  was  out  of  curl  and  the  color  was  out 
of  her  cheeks.  But  to  Valentine  Landry  she  was 
beautiful. 

"  It  was  a  convulsion,"  she  told  him,  simply. 
"I  am  afraid  she  will  have  another.  We  haven't 
been  able  to  get  a  doctor — will  you  get  one  for  us?  " 

Out  he  went  on  his  mission  for  the  lady  of  his 
324 


A  REBELLIOUS  GRANDMOTHER 

heart,  and  the  lady  of  his  heart,  sitting  wet  and 
worried  in  the  pale-gray  bedroom,  was  saying  to 
herself,  monotonously,  "  It's  all  over  now — no  man 
could  see  me  like  this  and  love  me " 

Cecily  and  her  husband  and  the  doctor  and  Lan- 
dry  came  in  out  of  the  darkness  together.  They 
went  up-stairs  together,  then  stopped  on  the  thresh- 
old as  Cissy  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

She  continued  to  croon  softly  the  lullaby  which 
had  belonged  to  her  own  babies :  "  Hushaby,  sweet, 
my  own " 

It  was  Cecily  and  the  doctor  who  went  in  to  herr 
and  Landry,  standing  back  in  the  shadows,  waited. 
He  spoke  to  Cissy  as  she  came  out. 

"  I  am  going  so  early  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
"  will  you  give  me  just  one  little  minute  now?  " 

In  that  minute  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her. 

And  Cissy,  standing  in  the  library  in  all  the  dis- 
order of  uncurled  locks  and  gray  kimono,  de- 
manded, after  a  rapturous  pause,  "  But  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  before?  " 

He  found  it  hard  to  explain.  "  I  didn't  quite 
realize  it — until  I  saw  you  there  so  tender  and 
sweet,  with  the  baby  in  your  arms " 

"A  Madonna-creature,"  murmured  Cissy  Beale. 

But  he  did  not  understand.  "  It  isn't  because  I 
want  you  to  sit  in  a  chimney-corner — it  wasn't  fair 

of  you  to  say  that " 

325 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Then  in  just  one  short  speech  Cissy  Beale  showed 
him  her  heart.  She  told  of  the  years  of  devotion, 
always  unrewarded  by  the  affection  she  craved. 
"And  here  was  the  baby,"  she  finished,  "to  grow 
up — and  find  somebody  else,  and  forget  me " 

As  he  gathered  her  into  his  protecting  embrace, 
his  big  laugh  comforted  her. 

"  I'm  yours  till  the  end  of  the  world,  little  grand- 
mother," he  whispered.  "I  shall  never  find  any 
one  else — and  I  shall  never  forget." 


326 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

KTNGDON  KNOX  was  not  conscious  of  any  special 
meanness  of  spirit.  He  was  a  lawyer  and  a  good 
one.  He  was  fifty,  and  wore  his  years  with  an  ef- 
fect of  youth.  He  exercised  persistently  and  kept 
his  boyish  figure.  He  had  keen,  dark  eyes,  and 
silver  in  his  hair.  He  was  always  well  groomed 
and  well  dressed,  and  his  income  provided  him  with 
the  proper  settings.  His  home  in  the  suburb  was 
spacious  and  handsome  and  presided  over  by  a 
handsome  and  socially  successful  wife.  His  office 
was  presided  over  by  Mary  Barker,  who  was  his 
private  secretary.  She  was  thirty-five  and  had  been 
in  his  office  for  fifteen  years.  She  had  come  to  him 
an  unformed  girl  of  twenty;  she  was  now  a  per- 
fect adjunct  to  his  other  office  appointments.  She 
wore  tailored  frocks,  her  hair  was  exquisitely 
dressed  in  shining  waves,  her  hands  were  white  and 
her  nails  polished,  her  slender  feet  shod  in  unex- 
ceptional shoes. 

Nannie  Ashburner,  who  was  also  in  the  office  and 
who  now  and  then  took  Knox's  dictation,  had  an 
immense  admiration  for  Mary.  "  I  wish  I  could 
wear  my  clothes  as  you  do,"  she  would  say  as  they 
walked  home  together. 

"  Clothes  aren't  everything." 
327 


TEE  OAY  COCKADE 

"  Well,  they  are  a  lot." 

"I  would  give  them  all  to  be  as  young  as  you 
are." 

"  You  don't  look  old,  Mary." 

"  Of  course  I  take  care  of  myself,"  said  Mary, 
"but  if  I  were  as  young  as  you  I'd  begin  over 
again." 

"  How  do  you  mean  l  begin,'  Mary?  " 

But  Mary  was  not  communicative.  "  Oh,  well, 
I'd  have  some  things  that  I  might  have  had  and 
can't  get  now,"  was  all  the  satisfaction  that  she 
gave  Nannie. 

It  was  through  Mary  that  Nannie  had  obtained 
her  position  in  Kingdon  Knox's  office.  Mary  had 
boarded  with  Nannie's  mother  for  five  years. 
Nannie  was  fourteen  when  Mary  came.  She  had 
finished  high  school  and  had  had  a  year  in  a  busi- 
ness college,  and  then  Mrs.  Ashburner  had  asked 
Mary  if  there  was  any  chance  for  her  in  Kingdon 
Knox's  office. 

Mary  had  considered  it,  but  had  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate. "  We  need  another  typist,  but  I  am  not  sure 
it  is  the  place  for  her." 

"  Why  not?  " 

Mary  did  not  say  why.  "  I  wish  she  didn't  have 
to  work  at  all.  She  ought  to  get  married." 

"Dick  McDonald  wants  her.  But  she's  too 
young,  Mary." 

328 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

"  You  were  married  at  nineteen." 

"  Yes,  and  a  lot  I  got  out  of  it."  Mrs.  Ashburner 
was  sallow  and  cynical.  "  I  kept  boarders  to  make 
a  living  for  my  husband,  Mary;  and  since  he  died 
I've  kept  boarders  to  make  a  living  for  Nannie 
and  me." 

"  But  Dick  gets  good  wages." 

"  Well,  he  can  wait  till  he  saves  something." 

"  Don't  make  him  wait  too  long." 

It  was  against  her  better  judgment  that  Mary 
Barker  spoke  to  her  employer  about  Nannie.  "  I 
should  want  her  to  help  me.  She  is  not  expert 
enough  to  take  your  dictation,  but  she  could  re- 
lieve me  of  a  lot  of  detail." 

"  Well,  let  me  have  a  look  at  her,"  Kingdon 
Knox  had  said. 

So  Nannie  had  come  to  be  looked  over,  and  she 
had  blushed  a  little  and  had  been  rather  breathless 
as  she  had  talked  to  Mr.  Kingdon,  and  he  had  been 
aware  of  the  vividness  of  her  young  beauty;  for 
Nannie  had  red  hair  that  curled  over  her  ears,  and 
her  skin  was  warm  ivory,  and  her  eyes  were  gray. 

Her  clothes  were  not  quite  up  to  the  office  stand- 
ard, but  Knox,  having  hired  her,  referred  the  matter 
to  Mary.  "You  might  suggest  that  she  cut  out 
thin  waists  and  high  heels,"  he  had  said;  "you 
know  what  I  like." 

Mary  knew,  and  Nannie's  first  month's  salary 
329 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

had  been  spent  in  the  purchase  of  a  serge  one-piece 
frock. 

Mrs.  Ashburner  had  rebelled  at  the  expense. 
But  Mary  had  been  firm.  "  Mr.  Knox  won't  have 
anybody  around  the  office  who  looks  slouchy  or 
sloppy.  It  will  pay  in  the  end." 

Nannie  thought  Mr.  Knox  wonderful.  "  He  says 
that  he  wants  me  to  work  hard  so  that  I  can  handle 
some  of  his  letters." 

"  When  did  he  teU  you  that?  " 

"  Last  night,  while  you  were  taking  testimony  in 
the  library." 

The  office  library  was  lined  with  law  books. 
There  were  a  handsome  long  mahogany  table,  green 
covered,  and  six  handsome  mahogany  chairs. 
Mary,  shut  in  with  three  of  Knox's  clients  and  a 
consulting  partner,  had  had  a  sense  of  uneasiness. 
It  was  after  hours.  Nannie  was  waiting  for  her 
in  the  outer  office.  Everybody  else  had  gone  home 
except  Knox,  who  was  waiting  for  his  clients. 

Mary  remembered  how,  when  she  was  Nannie's 
age,  she  had  often  sat  in  that  outer  office  after 
hours,  and  Knox  had  talked  to  her.  He  had  been 
thirty-five  and  she,  twenty.  He  had  a  wife  and  a 
handsome  home ;  she  had  nothing  but  a  hall  room. 
And  he  had  made  her  feel  that  she  was  very  neces- 
sary to  him.  "  I  don't  know  how  we  should  ever 
get  along  without  you,"  he  had  said. 

330 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

.    He  had  said  other  things. 

It  was  because  he  had  spoken  of  her  lovely  hair 
that  she  had  kept  it  brushed  and  shining.  It  was 
because  his  eves  had  followed  her  pencil  that  she 
had  rubbed  cold  cream  on  her  hands  at  night  and 
had  looked  well  after  her  nails.  It  was  because  she 
had  learned  his  taste  that  she  wore  simple  but  ex- 
pensive frocks.  It  was  because  of  her  knowledge 
that  nothing  escaped  him  that  she  shod  her  pretty 
feet  in  expensive  shoes. 

He  had  set  standards  for  her,  and  she  had  fol- 
lowed them.  And  now  he  would  set  standards  for 
Nannie ! 

She  spoke  abruptly.  "  Is  Dick  McDonald  com- 
ing to-night?  " 

"  Yes.  He  has  had  a  raise,  Mary.  He  tele- 
phoned   " 

The  two  girls  were  in  Mary's  room.  Dinner  was 
over  and  Mary  had  slipped  on  a  Chinese  coat  of 
dull  blue  and  had  settled  down  for  an  evening  with 
her  books.  Mary's  room  was  charming.  In  fifteen 
years  she  had  had  gifts  of  various  kinds  from  Knox. 
They  had  always  been  well  chosen  and  appropriate. 
Nothing  could  have  been  in  better  taste  as  an  offer- 
ing from  an  employer  to  an  employee  than  the  em- 
bossed leather  book  ends  and  desk  set,  the  mahog- 
any reading  lamp  with  its  painted  parchment 
shade,  the  bronze  Buddha,  the  antique  candlesticks, 

331 


the  Chelsea  teacups,  the  Sheffield  tea  caddy. 
Mary's  comfortable  salary  had  permitted  her  to 
buy  the  book  shelves  and  the  tea  table  and  the 
mahogany  day  bed.  There  was  a  lovely  rug  which 
Mrs.  Kaox  had  sent  her  on  the  tenth  anniversary  of 
her  association  with  the  office.  Mrs.  Knox  looked 
upon  Mary  as  a  valuable  business  asset.  She  in- 
vited her  once  a  year  to  dinner. 

Nannie  wore  her  blue  serge  one-piece  frock  and 
a  new  winter  hat.  The  hat  was  a  black  velvet 
tarn. 

"  You  need  something  to  brighten  you  up,"  Mary 
said ;  "  take  my  beads." 

The  beads  were  jade  ones  which  Mr.  Knox  had 
brought  to  Mary  when  he  came  back  from  a  six 
months'  sojourn  in  the  Orient.  Mary  had  looked 
after  the  office  while  he  was  away.  He  had  clasped 
the  beads  about  her  neck.  "  Bend  your  head  while 
I  put  them  on,  Mary,"  he  had  commanded.  He  had 
been  at  his  desk  in  his  private  office  while  she  sat 
beside  him  with  her  note-book.  And  when  he  had 
clasped  the  beads  and  she  had  lifted  her  head,  he 
had  said  with  a  quick  intake  of  his  breath :  "  I've 
been  a  long  time  away  from  you,  Mary." 

Nannie  with  the  jade  beads  and  her  red  hair  and 
her  velvet  tarn  was  rather  rare  and  wonderful. 
"  Dick  is  going  to  take  me  to  the  show  to  celebrate. 
He's  got  tickets  to  Jack  Barrymore." 

332 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

"  Dick  is  such  a  nice  boy,"  said  Mary.  "  I'm  glad 
you  are  going  to  marry  him,  Nannie." 

"  Who  said  I  was  going  to  marry  him?  " 

"  That's  what  he  wants, Nannie, and  you  know  it." 

"  Mr.  Knox  says  it  is  a  pity  for  a  girl  like  me  to 
get  married." 

Mary's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating.  She  knew 
just  how  Knox  had  said  it. 

She  spoke  quietly.  "  I  think  it  would  be  a  pity 
for  you  not  to  marry,  Nannie." 

"  I  don't  see  why.    You  aren't  married,  Mary." 

"No." 

"And  Mr.  Knox  says  that  unless  a  girl  can  marry 
a  man  who  can  lift  her  up  she  had  better  stay 
single." 

The  same  old  arguments !  "  What  does  he  mean 
by  '  lift  her  up/  Nannie?  " 

"  Well " — Nannie  laughed  self-consciously — "  he 
says  that  any  one  as  pretty  and  refined  as  I  might 
marry  anybody ;  that  I  must  be  careful  not  to  throw 
myself  away." 

"  Wojuld  it  be  throwing  yourself  away  to  marry 
Dick?" 

"  It  might  be.  He  looked  all  right  to  me  before 
I  went  into  the  office.  But  after  you've  seen  men 
like  Mr.  Knox — well,  our  kind  serai — common." 

Mrs.  Ashburner  was  calling  that  Dick  McDonald 
was  down-stairs.  Nannie,  powdering  her  nose  with 

333 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Mary's  puff,  was  held  by  the  earnestness  of  the 
other  woman's  words. 

"Let  Dick  love  you,  Dannie.  He's  such  a 
dear." 

Dick  was,  Nannie  decided  before  the  evening  was 
over,  a  dear  and  a  darling.  He  had  brought  her  a 
box  of  candy  and  something  else  in  a  box.  Mrs. 
Ashburner  had  shown  him  into  the  dining-room, 
which  she  and  Nannie  used  as  a  sitting-room  when 
the  meals  were  over.  The  boarders  occupied  the 
parlor  and  were  always  in  the  way. 

"  Say,  girlie,  see  here,"  Dick  said  as  he  brought 
out  the  box;  and  Nannie  had  gazed  upon  a  ring 
which  sparkled  and  shone  and  which  looked,  as 
Dick  said  proudly,  "  like  a  million  dollars." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  have  the  best."  His  arm  went 
suddenly  around  her.  "  I  always  want  you  to  have 
the  best,  sweetheart." 

He  kissed  her  in  his  honest,  boyish  fashion,  and 
she  took  the  ring  and  wore  it ;  and  they  went  to  the 
play  in  a  rosy  haze  of  happiness,  and  when  they 
came  home  he  kissed  her  again. 

"  The  sooner  you  get  out  of  that  office  the  better," 
he  said.  "We'll  get  a  little  flat,  and  I've  saved 
enough  to  furnish  it." 

Nannie  was  lighting  the  lamp  under  the  perco- 
lator. Mrs.  Ashburner  had  left  a  plate  of  sand- 
wiches on  one  end  of  the  dining-room  table.  Nannie 

334 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

was  young  and  Mrs.  Ashburner  was  old-fashioned. 
Her  daughter  was  not  permitted  to  eat  after-the- 
theatre  suppers  in  restaurants.  "  You  can  always 
have  something  here." 

"  Don't  let's  settle  down  yet,"  Nannie  said,  stand- 
ing beside  the  percolator  like  a  young  priestess  be- 
side an  altar.  "  There's  plenty  of  time " 

"  Plenty  of  time  for  what? "  asked  her  lover. 
"  We've  no  reason  to  wait,  Nannie." 

So  Dick  kissed  her,  and  she  let  him  kiss  her. 
She  loved  him,  but  she  would  make  no  promises  as 
to  the  important  day.  Dick  went  away  a  bit  puz- 
zled by  her  attitude.  He  wanted  her  at  once  in  his 
home.  It  hurt  him  that  she  did  not  seem  to  care 
to  come  to  him. 

It  was  a  cold  night,  with  white  flakes  falling,  and 
the  policeman  on  the  beat  greeted  Dick  as  he  passed 
him.  "  It  is  a  nice  time  in  the  morning  for  you 
to  be  getting  home." 

"  Oh,  hello,  Tommy !  I'm  going  to  be  married. 
How's  that?" 

"Who's  the  girl?" 

"  Nannie  Ashburner." 

"That  little  redhead?" 

"  You're  jealous,  Tommy." 

"  I  am ;  she'll  cook  sausages  for  you  when  you 
come  home  on  cold  nights,  and  kiss  you  at  your 
front  door,  and  set  the  talking  machine  going,  with 

335 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

John   McCormack    shouting   love    songs    as   you 
come  in." 

Dick  laughed.  "  Some  picture,  Tommy.  And  a 
lot  you  know  about  it.  Why  don't  you  get  married 
and  try  it  out?  " 

Tommy,  who  was  tall  and  ruddy  and  forty,  plus 
a  year  or  two,  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  I  might  find 
somebody  to  cook  the  sausages,  but  there's  only  one 
that  I'd  care  to  kiss." 

"  So  that's  it.    She  turned  you  down,  Tommy?  " 

"  She  did,  and  we  won't  talk  about  it." 

"  Oh,  very  well.     Good-night,  Tommy." 

"  Good-night." 

So  Dick  passed  on,  and  Tommy  Jackson  beat  his 
hands  against  his  breast  as  he  made  his  way 
through  the  whirling  snow,  his  footsteps  deadened 
by  the  frozen  carpet  which  the  storm  had  spread. 

Mary  Barker  was  delighted  when  Nannie  told  of 
her  engagement  to  Dick.  She  talked  it  over  with 
Mrs.  Ashburner.  "It  will  be  the  best  thing  for 
her." 

Mrs.  Ashburner  was  not  sure.  "  I've  drudged  all 
my  life  and  I  hate  to  see  her  drudge." 

"  She  won't  have  it  as  hard  as  you  have  had  it," 
Mary  said.  "Dick  will  always  make  a  good  in- 
come." 

"  She  will  have  a  harder  time  than  you've  had, 
Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Ashburner,  and  her  eyes  swept  the 

336 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

pretty  room  wistfully.  "Many  a  time  when  I've 
been  down  in  my  steaming  old  kitchen  I  have 
thought  of  you  up  here  in  your  blue  coat  and  your 
pretty  slippers,  with  your  hair  shining,  and  I've 
wished  to  heaven  that  I  had  never  married." 

"  Things  haven't  been  easy  for  you,"  said  Mary 
gently. 

"  They  have  been  harder  than  nails,  Mary. 
You've  escaped  all  that." 

"Yes."  Mary's  eyes  did  not  meet  Mrs.  Ash- 
burner's.  "  I  have  escaped — that." 

Nannie  and  her  mother  slept  in  the  back  parlor 
of  the  boarding-house.  They  had  single  beds  and 
it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  night  that  Mrs.  Ash- 
burner  said :  "Are  you  awake,  Nannie?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  Well,  I  can't  seem  to  get  to  sleep.  Maybe  it's 
the  coffee  and  maybe  it's  because  I  have  you  on  my 
mind.  I  keep  thinking  that  I  hate  to  have  you  get 
married,  honey." 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't  you  like  Dick?  " 

"  Yes.  It  ain't  that.  But  it's  nice  for  you  in  the 
office  and  you  don't  have  to  slave." 

Nannie  sat  up  in  bed,  and  the  light  from  the  street 
lamp  shone  in  and  showed  her  wide-eyed,  with  her 
hair  in  a  red  glory.  "I  shan't  slave,"  she  said. 
"  I  told  Dick." 

"  Men  don't  know."  Mrs.  Ashburner  spoke  with 
337 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

a  sort  of  weary  bitterness.  "  They'll  promise  any- 
thing." 

"And  I  am  not  going  to  be  married  in  a  hurry, 
mother.  Dick's  got  to  wait  for  me  if  he  wants  me." 

It  sounded  very  worldly-minded  and  decisive  and 
Mrs.  Ashburner  gained  an  envious  comfort  in  her 
daughter's  declaration.  She  had  never  set  herself 
against  a  man's  will  in  that  way.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  Nannie  would  make  a  success  of  marriage. 

But  Nannie  was  not  so  resolute  as  her  words 
might  have  seemed  to  imply.  Long  after  her 
mother  slept  she  lay  awake  in  the  dark  and  thought 
of  Dick,  of  the  break  in  his  voice  when  he  had  made 
his  plea,  the  light  in  his  eyes  when  he  had  won  a 
response,  his  flaming  youth,  his  fine  boy's  reverence 
for  her  own  youth  and  innocence.  It  would  be — 
rather  wonderful,  she  whispered  to  her  heart,  and 
fell  asleep,  dreaming. 

The  next  morning  was  very  cold,  and  Nannie, 
coming  early  into  Kingdon  Knox's  office  to  take 
his  letters,  was  in  a  glow  after  her  walk  through 
the  snowy  streets.  Her  cheeks  were  red,  her  eyes 
sparkled,  and  the  ring  on  her  finger  sparkled. 

Knox  at  once  noticed  the  ring.  "  So  that's  it," 
he  said,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  Let's  talk 
about  it  a  little." 

They  talked  about  it  more  than  a  little,  and  the 
burden  of  Kingdon  Knox's  argument  was  that  it 

888 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

was  a  pity.  She  was  too  young  and  pretty  to  marry 
a  poor  man  and  live  in  a  funny  little  flat  and  do  her 
own  work  and  spoil  her  nails  with  dishwashing. 
"  Personally,  I  think  it's  rather  dreadful.  A  waste 
of  you,  if  you  want  the  truth." 

Poor  Nannie,  listening,  saw  her  castles  falling. 
It  would  be  rather  dreadful — dishwashing  and  a 
gas  stove  and  getting  meals. 

"  He  is  awfully  in  love  with  me,"  she  managed  to 
say  at  last. 

"And  you?"  He  leaned  forward  a  little.  Nan- 
nie  was  aware  of  the  feeling  of  excitement  which  he 
could  always  rouse  in  her.  When  he  spoke  like 
that  she  saw  herself  as  something  rather  perfect 
and  princesslike. 

"  Wait — for  Prince  Charming,"  he  said. 

Nannie  was  sure  that  when  Prince  Charming 
came  he  would  be  like  Mr.  Knox ;  younger  perhaps, 
but  with  that  same  lovely  manner. 

"  Of  course,"  Mr.  Knox  said  gently,  "  I  suppose 
I  ought  not  to  advise,  but  if  I  were  you" — he 
touched  the  sparkling  ring — "  I  should  give  it  back 
to  him." 

So  after  several  absorbing  talks  with  her  em- 
ployer on  the  subject,  Nannie  gave  the  ring  back, 
and  when  poor  Dick  passed  his  friend  the  police- 
man on  his  way  home  he  stopped  and  told  his 
story. 

339 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  They  are  all  like  that,"  Tommy  said,  "  but  if  I 
were  you  I  wouldn't  take  i  no '  for  an  answer." 

Dick  brightened.     "  Wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Not  if  I  had  to  carry  her  off  under  my  arm," 
said  Tommy  between  his  teeth. 

"  But  I  can't  carry  her  off,  Tommy — and  she 
won't  go." 

"  She'll  go  if  you  ain't  afraid  of  her,"  Tommy 
told  him  with  solemn  emphasis.  "  I  was  afraid." 

They  were  under  the  street  lamp,  and  Dick 
stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  afraid  of  anything." 

"I  didn't  k'icw  it  either,"  was  Tommy's  grim 
response,  "until  I  met  her.  But  I've  known  it 
ever  since." 

"  Well,  it's  hard  luck." 

"  It  is  hardest  at  Christmas  time,"  said  Tommy, 
"  and  my  beat  ain't  the  best  one  to  make  me  cheer- 
ful. There  are  too  many  stores.  And  dolls  in  the 
windows.  And  drums.  And  horns.  And  Santa 
Claus  handing  out  things  to  kids.  And  I've  got  to 
see  it,  with  money  just  burning  in  my  pocket  to  buy 
things  and  to  have  a  tree  of  my  own  and  a  turkey 
in  my  oven  and  a  table  with  some  one  who  cares  at 
the  other  end.  And  all  I'll  get  out  of  the  merry 
season  is  a  table  d'hote  at  Mtti's  and  a  box  of  cigars 
from  the  boys." 

"Ain't  women  the  limit,  Tommy?  " 
340 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

"Well" — Tommy's  tone  held  a  note  of  forced 
cheerfulness — "  that  little  redhead  must  have  had 
some  reason  for  not  wanting  you,  Dick.  Maybe  we 
men  ain't  worth  it." 

"  Worth  what?  " 

"  Marrying.  A  woman's  got  a  square  deal  com- 
ing to  her,  and  she  doesn't  always  get  it." 

"  She'd  get  it  with  you,  and  she'd  get  it  with  me ; 
you  know  that,  Tommy." 

"  She  might,"  said  Tommy  pessimistically,  "  if 
the  good  Lord  helped  us." 

Xannie  on  the  day  after  her  break  with  Dick 
was  blushingly  aware  of  the  bareness  of  her  third 
finger  as  she  took  Kingdon  Knox'ss  dictation.  When 
he  had  finished  his  letters,  Knox  smiled  at  her. 
"  So  you  gave  it  back,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Good  little  girl.  You'll  find  something  much 
better  if  you  wait.  And  I  don't  want  you  wasted." 
He  opened  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  long  box.  He 
opened  it  and  lifted  a  string  of  beads.  They  were 
of  carved  ivory,  and  matched  the  cream  of  Nannie's 
complexion.  They  were  strung  strongly  on  a  thick 
thread  of  scarlet  silk,  and  there  was  a  scarlet  tassel 
at  the  end. 

"  They  are  for  you,"  he  said.  "  It  is  my  first 
Christmas  present  to  you;  but  I  hope  it  won't  be 
the  last." 

341 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

Nannie's  heart  beat  so  that  she  could  almost  hear 
it.  "  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said  breathlessly ; 
"  they're  so  beautiful." 

But  she  did  not  know  how  rare  they  were,  nor 
how  expensive  until  she  wore  them  in  Mary's  room 
that  night. 

"  Where  did  you  get  them,  Nannie?  " 

"  Mr.  EJQOX  gave  them  to  me." 

There  was  dead  silence,  then  Mary  said :  "Nannie, 
you  ought  not  to  take  them." 

"Why  not?" 

"  They  cost  such  an  awful  lot,  Nannie.  They 
look  simple,  but  they  aren't.  The  carving  is  ex- 
quisite." 

"  Well,  he  gave  you  beads,  Mary." 

Mary's  face  was  turned  away.  "  It  was  different. 
I  have  been  such  a  long  time  in  the  office." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  much  different,  and  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  give  them  back,  Mary." 

Mary  did  not  argue,  but  when  a  little  later  Nannie 
told  of  her  broken  engagement,  Mary  said  sharply : 
"  But,  Nannie— why?  " 

"Well,  mother  doesn't  care  much  for  the  idea. 
She — she  thinks  a  girl  is  much  better  off  to  keep 
on  at  the  office." 

Mary  was  lying  in  her  long  chair  under  the  lamp. 
She  had  a  cushion  under  her  head,  and  her  hand 

342 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

shaded  her  eyes.  "  Did — Mr.  Knox  have  anything 
to  do  with  it?  " 

"  What  makes  you  ask  that,  Mary?  " 

"Did  he?" 

"Well,  yes.  You  know  what  I  told  you;  he 
thinks  I'd  be — wasted." 

"  On  Dick?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mary  lay  for  a  long  time  with  her  hand  over  her 
eyes ;  then  she  said :  "  If  you  don't  marry  Dick, 
what  about  your  future,  Nannie?  " 

"  There's  time  enough  to  think  about  that.  And 
— and  I  can  wait." 

"  For  what?  " 

Nannie  blushed  and  laughed  a  little.  "Prince 
Charming." 

After  that  there  was  a  silence,  out  of  which 
Nannie  asked :  "  Does  your  head  ache,  Mary?  " 

"A  little." 

"  Can't  I  get  you  something?  " 

"  No.    After  I've  rested  a  bit  I'll  take  a  walk." 

Mary's  walk  led  her  by  the  lighted  shop  windows. 
The  air  was  keen  and  cold  and  helped  her  head. 
But  it  did  not  help  her  heart.  She  had  a  sense  of 
suffocation  when  she  thought  of  Nannie. 

She  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  shops.  There 
were  dolls  in  the  window,  charming,  round-eyed, 
ringleted.  One  of  them  was  especially  captivating, 

343 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

with  fat  blond  curls,  fat  legs,  blue  silk  socks  and 
slippers,  crisp  frills  and  a  broad  blue  hat. 

"  How  I  should  have  loved  her  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,"  was  Mary's  thought  as  she  stood  looking  in. 
Then :  "  How  a  child  of  my  own  would  have  loved 
her." 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  buy  the 
doll — in  the  morning  when  the  shop  opened.  It 
was  a  whimsical  thing  to  do,  to  give  herself  a  doll 
at  her  time  of  life.  But  it  would  be  in  a  sense 
symbolic.  She  had  no  child  to  which  to  give  it; 
she  would  give  it  to  the  child  who  was  once  herself. 

She  came  home  with  a  lighter  heart  and  with  the 
knowledge  of  what  she  had  to  do.  She  put  on  her 
blue  house  coat  and  sat  down  to  her  desk  with  its 
embossed  leather  fittings,  and  there  under  the  lovely 
lamp  which  Kingdon  Knox  had  given  her  she  wrote 
to  Nannie. 

She  gave  the  letter  to  Nannie  the  next  morning. 
"I  want  you  to  read  it  when  you  are  all  alone. 
Then  tear  it  up.  It  must  always  be  just  between 
you  and  me,  Nannie." 

Nannie  read  the  letter  in  the  lunch  hour.  She 
got  her  lunch  at  a  cafeteria  and  there  was  a  rest 
room.  It  was  very  quiet  and  she  had  a  corner  to 
herself.  She  wondered  what  Mary  had  to  say  to 
her,  and  why  she  didn't  talk  it  out  instead  of  writ- 
ing about  it. 

344 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

But  Mary  had  felt  that  she  could  not  trust  herself 
to  speak.  There  would  have  been  Nannie's  eyes  to 
meet,  questions  to  answer ;  and  this  meant  so  much. 
Paper  and  pen  were  impersonal. 

"  It  isn't  easy  to  talk  such  things  out,  Nannie.  I 
should  never  have  written  this  if  I  had  not  realized 
last  night  that  your  feet  were  following  the  path 
which  my  own  have  followed  for  fifteen  years.  And 
I  knew  that  you  were  envying  me  and  wanting  to  be 
like  me;  and  I  am  saying  what  I  shall  say  in  this 
letter  so  that  I  may  save  you,  Nannie. 

"  When  I  first  came  into  Mr.  Knox's  office  I  was 
young  like  you,  and  I  had  a  lover,  young  and  fine 
like  Dick,  and  he  satisfied  me.  We  had  our  plans — 
of  a  home  and  the  happiness  we  should  have  to- 
gether. If  I  had  married  him,  I  should  now  have 
sons  and  daughters  growing  up  about  me,  and  when 
Christmas  came  there  would  be  a  tree  and  young 
faces  smiling,  and  my  husband,  smiling. 

"  But  Mr.  Knox  talked  to  me  as  he  talked  to  you. 
He  told  me,  too,  to  wait — for  Prince  Charming.  He 
told  me  I  was  too  fine  to  be  wasted.  He  hinted  that 
the  man  I  was  planning  to  marry  was  a  plain  fel- 
low, not  good  enough  for  me.  He  talked  and  I 
listened.  He  opened  vistas.  I  saw  myself  raised 
to  a  different  sphere  by  some  man  like  Mr.  Knox — 
just  as  well  groomed,  just  as  distinguished,  just  as 
rich  and  wonderful. 

"  But  such  men  don't  come  often  into  the  lives  of 
girls  like  you  and  me,  Nannie.  I  know  that  now. 
I  did  not  know  it  then.  But  Mr.  Knox  should  have 
known  it.  Yet  he  held  out  the  hope;  and  at  last 

345 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

he  robbed  me  of  my  future,  of  the  little  home,  my 
fine,  strong  husband.  He  robbed  me  of  my  woman's 
heritage  of  a  child  in  my  arms. 

"And  in  return  he  gave  me — nothing.  I  have 
found  in  the  years  that  I  have  been  with  him  that 
he  likes  to  be  admired  and  looked  up  to  by  pretty 
women.  He  likes  to  mold  us  into  something  ex- 
quisite and  ornamental,  he  likes  to  feel  that  he 
has  molded  us.  He  likes  to  see  our  blushes.  All 
these  years  that  I  have  been  with  him,  he  has  liked 
to  feel  that  I  looked  upon  him  as  the  ideal  toward 
which  all  my  girlish  dreams  tended. 

"  He  is  not  in  love  with  me,  and  I  am  not  in  love 
with  him.  But  he  has  always  known  that  if  he  had 
been  free  and  had  wooed  me,  I  should  have  felt  that 
King  Cophetua  had  come  to  the  beggar  maid.  Yet, 
too  late,  I  can  see  that  if  he  had  been  free  he  would 
never  have  wooed  me.  His  ambition  would  have 
carried  him  up  and  beyond  anything  I  can  ever  hope 
to  be,  and  he  would  have  sought  some  woman  of  his 
own  circle  who  would  have  contributed  to  his 
material  success. 

"And  now  he  is  trying  to  spoil  your  life,  Nannie — 
to  make  you  discontented  with  your  future  with 
Dick.  You  look  at  him  and  see  in  your  life  some 
day  a  Prince  Charming.  But  I  tell  you  this,  Nan- 
nie, that  Prince  Charming  will  never  come.  And 
after  a  time  all  you  will  have  to  show  for  the  years 
that  you  have  spent  in  the  office  will  be  just  a  pretty 
room,  a  few  bits  of  wood  and  leather  and  bronze  in 
exchange  for  warm,  human  happiness,  clinging 
hands,  a  husband  like  Dick,  who  adores  you,  who 
comes  home  at  night,  eager — for  you ! 

346 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

"  You  can  have  all  this — and  I  have  lost  it.  And 
there  isn't  much  ahead  of  me.  I  shan't  always  be 
ornamental,  and  then  Mr.  Knox  will  let  me  drop 
out  of  his  life,  as  he  has  let  others  drop  out.  And 
there'll  be  loneliness  and  old  age  and — nothing 
else. 

"  Oh,  Nannie,  I  want  you  to  marry  Dick.  I  want 
you  to  know  that  all  the  rest  is  dust  and  ashes.  I 
feel  tired  and  old ;  and  when  I  think  of  your  youth 
and  beauty,  I  want  Dick  to  have  it,  not  Mr.  Knox, 
who  will  natter  and — forget. 

"  Tear  this  letter  up,  Nannie.  It  hasn't  been  easy 
to  write.  I  don't  want  anybody  but  you  to  read  it." 

But  Nannie  did  not  tear  it  up. 

She  tucked  it  in  her  bag  and  went  to  telephone  to 
Dick. 

And  would  he  meet  her  on  the  corner  under  the 
street  lamp  that  night  when  she  came  home  from 
the  office?  She  had  something  to  tell  him. 

Dick  met  Nannie,  and  presently  they  pursued 
their  rapturous  way.  A  little  later  Tommy  Jack- 
son passed  by.  Something  caught  his  eye. 

A  bit  of  white  paper. 

He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  Mary's  let- 
ter to  Nannie.  Nannie  had  cried  into  her  little 
handkerchief  while  she  talked  to  Dick,  and  in  get- 
ting the  handkerchief  out  of  the  bag  the  letter  had 
come  with  it  and  had  dropped  unnoticed  to  the 

ground. 

347 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

It  had  been  years  since  Tommy  had  seen  any  of 
Mary's  writing.  A  sentence  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
read  straight  through.  After  all,  there  are  things 
permitted  an  officer  of  the  law  which  might  be  un- 
seemly in  the  average  citizen. 

And  when  he  had  read,  Tommy  began  to  say 
things  beneath  his  breath.  And  the  chances  are 
that  had  Kingdon  Knox  appeared  at  that  moment 
things  would  have  fared  badly  with  him. 

But  it  was  Mary  Barker  who  came.  She  had 
under  her  arm  in  a  paper  parcel  the  fat  doll  with 
the  blond  curls  and  the  blue  socks.  She  did  not 
see  Tommy  until  she  was  almost  upon  him. 

Then  she  said:  "What  are  you  doing  here, 
Tommy?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  be  here?  " 

"  This  isn't  your  beat." 

"  It  has  been  my  beat  since  two  weeks  ago.  I've 
seen  you  go  by  every  night,  Mary." 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him.  And  he  looked 
down  at  her ;  and  so,  of  course,  their  gaze  met,  and 
something  that  she  saw  in  Tommy's  eyes  made 
Mary's  overflow. 

"  Mary,  darling,"  said  Tommy  tenderly. 

"  You  said  you  wouldn't  forgive  me." 

"  That  was  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  Tommy,  I'm  sorry." 

Tommy  stood  very  straight  as  became  an  officer 
348 


WAIT— FOR  PRINCE  CHARMING 

of  the  law   with,   the   eyes   of   the  world  upon 
him. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  just  read  your  letter  to 
Nannie.  She  dropped  it.  If  I'd  known  the  things 
in  that  letter  fifteen  years  ago  I'd  have  stayed  on 
my  job  until  I  got  you.  But  I  thought  you  didn't 
care." 

"  I  thought  so  too,"  said  Mary. 

"  But  the  letter  told  me  that  you  wanted  a  hus- 
band's loving  heart  and  a  strong  arm,"  said  Tommy, 
"and,  please  God,  you  are  going  to  have  them, 
Mary.  And  now  you  run  along,  girl,  dear.  I  can't 
be  making  love  when  I'm  on  duty.  But  I'll  come 
and  kiss  you  at  nine." 

So  Mary  ran  along,  and  her  heart  sang.  And 
when  she  got  home  she  unwrapped  the  fat  doll  and 
kissed  every  curl  of  her,  and  she  set  her  under  the 
lovely  lamp;  and  then  she  got  a  long  box  and  put 
something  in  it  and  wrapped  it  and  addressed  it  to 
Kingdon  Knox. 

And  after  that  she  went  to  the  window  and  stood 
there,  watching  until  she  saw  Tommy  coming. 

And  the  next  morning  when  Kingdon  Knox  found 
the  long  box  on  his  desk,  addressed  in  Mary's  hand- 
writing, he  thought  it  was  a  Christmas  present,  and 
he  opened  it,  smiling. 

But  his  smile  died  as  he  read  the  note  which  lay 
on  top  of  a  string  of  jade  beads : 

349 


"I  am  sending  them  back,  Mr.  Knox,  with  my 
resignation.  I  should  never  have  taken  them.  But 
somehow  you  made  me  feel  that  I  was  a  sort  of  fairy 
princess,  and  that  jade  beads  belonged  to  me,  and 
everything  beautiful,  and  that  some  day  life  would 
bring  them.  But  life  isn't  that,  and  you  knew  it 
and  I  didn't.  Life  is  just  warm  human  happiness, 
and  a  home,  and  work  for  those  we  love.  And  so, 
after  all,  I  am  going  to  marry  Tommy.  And  Nan- 
nie is  going  to  marry  Dick.  In  a  way  it  is  a  happy 
ending,  and  in  a  way  it  isn't,  because  I've  grown 
away  from  the  kind  of  life  I  must  live  with  Tommy, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  in  some  ways  I  am  not  fitted 
for  it.  But  Tommy  says  that  I  am  silly  to  be 
afraid.  And  in  the  future  I  ani  going  to  trust 
Tommy." 

And  so  Mary  went  out  of  Kingdon  Knox's  life. 
And  on  Christmas  Day  at  the  head  of  a  great  table, 
with  servants  to  the  right  of  him  and  servants  to 
the  left,  he  carved  a  mammoth  turkey;  and  there 
was  silver  shining,  and  glass  sparkling  and  lovely 
women  smiling,  all  in  honor  of  the  merry  season. 

But  Kingdon  Knox  was  not  merry  as  he  thought 
of  the  jade  beads  and  of  Mary's  empty  desk. 


350 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

I 

WITH  the  Merryman  girls  economy  was  a  fine 
art.  Money  was  spent  by  them  to  preserve  the 
family  traditions.  Nothing  else  counted.  Every- 
thing was  sacrificed  to  the  gods  of  yesterday. 

Little  Anne  Merryman  had  shivered  all  her  short 
life  in  the  bleakness  of  this  domestic  ideal. 

"Why  can't  I  have  butter  on  my  bread?"  she 
had  demanded  in  her  long-legged  schoolgirl  days, 
when  she  had  worn  her  fair  hair  in  a  fat  braid 
down  her  back. 

The  answers  had  never  been  satisfying.  Well- 
bred  people  might,  Amy  indicated,  go  without  but- 
ter. Their  income  was  not  elastic,  and  there  were 
things  more  important. 

"  What  things?  Amy,  I'm  so  hungry  I  could  eat 
a  house." 

It  was  these  expressions  of  Anne's  about  food 
which  shocked  Amy  and  Ethel. 

"  I'd  sell  my  soul  for  a  slice  of  roast  beef." 

"Anne!" 

"Well,  I  would!" 

"I — I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  so  ordinary, 

Anne." 

351 


TEE  GAT  COCKADE 

"Ordinary"  in  the  lexicon  of  Amy  and  Ethel 
meant  "  plebeian."  JS"o  one  in  the  Merryman 
family  had  ever  been  so  ordinary  as  Anne.  Hither- 
to the  Merrymans  had  been  content  to  warm  them- 
selves by  the  fires  of  their  own  complacency,  to 
feed  themselves  on  past  splendors;  for  the  Merry- 
mans  were  as  old  as  Norman  rule  in  England. 
They  had  come  to  America  with  grants  from  the 
king,  they  had  family  portraits  and  family  silver 
and  family  diamonds,  and  now  in  this  generation  of 
orphaned  girls,  two  of  them  at  least  were  fighting 
the  last  battles  of  family  pride.  The  fortunes  of 
the  Merrymans  had  declined,  and  Amy  and  Ethel, 
with  their  backs,  as  it  were,  to  the  wall,  were  mak- 
ing a  final  stand. 

"  We  must  have  evening  clothes,  we  must  enter- 
tain our  friends,  we  must  pay  for  the  family  pew" ; 
this  was  their  nervous  litany.  The  Merrymans  had 
always  dressed  and  entertained  and  worshiped 
properly;  hence  it  was  for  lace  or  tulle  or  velvet, 
as  the  case  might  be,  that  their  money  went.  It 
went,  too,  for  the  very  elegant  and  exclusive  little 
dinners  to  which,  on  rare  occasions,  their  friends 
were  bidden ;  and  it  went  for  the  high  place  in  the 
synagogue  from  which  they  prayed  their  pharisa- 
ical  prayers. 

"We  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  we  are  not  as 
others,"  prayed  Amy  and  Ethel  fervently. 

352 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

But  Anne  prayed  no  such  prayers.  She  wanted 
to  be  like  other  people.  She  wanted  to  eat  and 
drink  with  the  multitude,  she  wanted  a  warm, 
warm  heart,  a  groaning  board.  She  wanted  snug- 
ness  and  coziness  and  comfort.  And  she  grew  up 
loving  these  things,  and  hating  the  pale  walls  of 
their  old  house  in  Georgetown,  the  family  portraits, 
the  made-over  dinner  gowns  that  her  sisters  wore, 
her  own  made-over  party  frocks. 

"  Can't  I  have  a  new  one,  Amy?  " 

"  It's  Ethel's  turn." 

So  it  was  when  Anne  went  to  a  certain  diplomatic 
reception  in  a  made-over  satin  slip,  hidden  by  a 
cloud  of  snowy  tulle,  that  Murray  Flint  first 
waked  to  the  fact  of  her  loveliness. 

He  had  waked  ten  years  earlier  to  the  loveliness 
of  Amy,  and  five  years  later  to  the  beauty  of  Ethel. 

And  now  here  was  Anne ! 

"  She's  different  though,"  he  told  old  Molly  Win- 
chell ;  "  more  spiritual  than  the  others." 

It  was  Anne's  thinness  which  deceived  him.  It 
was  an  attractive  thinness.  She  was  pale,  with 
red  lips,  and  the  fat  fair  braids  had  given  way  to  a 
shining  knot.  She  wore  the  family  pearls,  and  the 
effect  was,  as  Murray  had  said,  spiritual.  Anno 
had  the  look,  indeed,  of  one  who  sees  heavenly 
visions. 

Amy  had  never  had  that  look.  She  was  dark 
353 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

and  vivid.  If  at  thirty  the  vividness  was  empha- 
sized by  artificial  means  the  fault  lay  in  Amy's 
sacrifice  to  her  social  ideals.  She  needed  the 
butter  which  she  denied  herself.  She  needed  cream 
and  eggs,  and  her  doctor  had  told  her  so.  And 
Amy  had  kept  the  knowledge  to  herself. 

Ethel,  eating  as  little  as  Amy — or  even  less — had 
escaped,  miraculously,  attenuation.  At  twenty 
she  had  been  a  plump  little  beauty.  She  was  still 
plump.  Her  neck  in  her  low-cut  gown  was  lovely. 
Her  figure  was  not  fashionable,  and  she  lacked 
Amy's  look  of  race. 

"  They  are  all  charming,"  Molly  Winchell  said. 
"Why  don't  you  marry  one  of  them,  Mur- 
ray? " 

"  Marriage,"  said  Murray,  "  would  spoil  it." 

"  Spoil  what?  " 

Murray  turned  on  her  Ms  fine  dark  eyes.  "  They 
are  such  darlings — the  three  of  them." 

"  You  Turk !  "  Molly  surveyed  him  over  the  top 
of  her  sapphire  feather  fan.  "  So  that's  it,  is  it? 
You  want  them  all." 

Murray  thought  vaguely  it  was  something  like 
that.  For  ten  years  he  had  had  Amy  and  Ethel — 
Amy  at  twenty,  fire  and  flame,  Ethel  at  fifteen,  with 
bronze  locks  and  lovely  color.  In  those  years  Anne 
had  promised  little  in  the  way  of  beauty  or  charm. 
She  had  read  voraciously,  curled  up  in  chairs  or  on 

354 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

rugs,  and  had  waked  now  and  then  to  his  presence 
and  a  hot  argument. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  Dickens,  Murray?  " 

"  Oh,  his  people,  Anne — clowns." 

"  They're  not ! " 

"Boors;  beggars."  He  made  a  gesture  of  dis- 
taste. 

"They're  darlings — Mark  Tapley  and  Ruth 
Pinch.  Murray,  if  I  had  a  beefsteak  I'd  make  a 
beefsteak  pie." 

There  was  more  of  pathos  in  this  than  Murray 
imagined.  There  had  been  no  beef  on  the  Merry- 
man  table  for  many  moons. 

"  Murray,  did  you  ever  eat  tripe?  " 

"  My  dear  child " 

"  It  sounds  dee-licious  when  Toby  Veck  has  it  on 
a  cold  morning.  And  there's  the  cricket  on  the 
hearth  and  the  teakettle  singing.  I'd  love  to  hear 
a  kettle  sing  like  that,  Murray;  wouldn't  you?  " 

But  Murray  wouldn't.  He  had  the  same  kind  of 
mind  as  Amy  and  Ethel.  He  did  not  like  robust 
and  hearty  things  or  robust  and  hearty  people.  He 
wore  a  corset  to  keep  his  hips  small,  and  stood  up 
at  teas  and  receptions  with  an  almost  military  car- 
riage. Of  course  he  had  to  sit  down  at  dinners, 
but  he  sat  very  straight.  He,  too,  had  family  por- 
traits and  family  silver,  and  he  lived  scrupulously 
up  to  them.  His  fortunes,  unlike  the  Merrymans', 

365 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

had  not  declined.  He  had  money  enough  and  to 
spare.  He  could  have  made  Amy  or  Ethel  very 
comfortable  if  he  had  married  either  of  them.  But 
he  had  not  wanted  to  marry.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  he  had  liked  to  think  of  Amy  as  presid- 
ing over  his  table.  She  would  have  fitted  in  per- 
fectly with  the  old  portraits  and  old  silver  and  the 
family  diamonds.  Then  Ethel  had  come  along. 
She  had  not  fitted  in  with  the  diamonds  and  por- 
traits and  silver,  but  she  had  stirred  his  pulses. 

"Anywhere  else  but  in  Georgetown,"  old  Molly 
Winchell  was  saying,  "  those  girls  would  have  been 
snapped  up  long  ago.  It's  a  poor  matrimonial 
market." 

Murray  was  complacently  aware  that  he  was 
geographically  the  only  eligible  man  on  the  Merry- 
man  horizon.  Unless  Amy  and  Ethel  could  marry 
with  distinction  they  would  not  marry  at  all.  It 
was  not  lack  of  attraction  which  kept  them  single, 
but  lack  of  suitors  in  their  own  set. 

And  now  here  was  Anne,  with  Ethel's  loveliness 
and  Amy's  look  of  race.  There  was  also  that  look 
of  angelic  detachment  from  the  things  of  earth. 

So  Murray's  eyes  rested  on  Anne  with  great  con- 
tent as  she  came  and  sat  beside  Molly  Winchell. 

Other  eyes  rested  on  her — Amy's  with  quick 
jealousy.  "  So  now  it's  Anne,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  perceived  Murray's  preoccupation.  Five 

356 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

years  ago  she  had  said,  "Now  it's  Ethel,"  as  she 
had  seen  him  turn  to  the  fresher  beauty.  Be- 
fore that  she  had  dreamed  of  herself  as  loving  and 
beloved.  It  had  been  hard  to  shut  her  eyes  to  that 
vision. 

Yet — better  Anne  than  an  outsider.  Amy  had  a 
fierce  sense  of  proprietorship  in  Murray.  If  she 
gave  him  to  Ethel,  to  Anne,  he  would  be  still  in  a 
sense  hers.  With  Anne  or  Ethel  she  would  share 
his  future,  partake  of  his  present. 

A  third  pair  of  eyes  surveyed  Anne  with  interest 
as  she  sat  by  Molly. 

"  Corking  kid,"  said  the  owner  of  the  eyes  to 
himself. 

His  name  was  Maxwell  Sears.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  like  Murray  Flint.  He  was  from  the 
Middle  West,  ho  was  red-blooded,  and  he  cared 
nothing  for  the  past.  He  held  it  as  a  rather  negli- 
gible honor  that  he  had  a  Declaration-signing  an- 
cestor. The  important  things  to  Maxwell  were 
that  he  was  representing  his  district  in  Congress ; 
that  he  was  still  young  enough  to  carry  his  college 
ideals  into  politics,  and  that  he  had  just  invested 
a  small  portion  of  the  fortune  which  his  father  had 
left  him  in  a  model  stock  farm  in  Illinois. 

For  the  rest,  he  was  big,  broad-shouldered,  clean- 
minded.  Now  and  then  he  looked  up  at  the  stars, 
and  what  he  saw  there  swayed  him  level  with  the 

367 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

men  about  Mm.  Because  of  the  stars  lie  called  no 
man  a  fool,  except  such  as  deemed  himself  wiser 
than  the  rest.  Because  he  believed  in  the  people 
they  believed  in  him.  It  was  that  which  had 
elected  him.  It  was  that  which  would  elect  him 
again. 

"  Corking  kid,"  said  Maxwell  Sears,  with  his 
smiling  eyes  on  Anne. 


n 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  Maxwell  managed 
an  introduction.  He  found  Anne  quaint  and 
charming.  That  she  was  reading  Dickens  amused 
him.  He  had  thought  that  no  one  read  Dickens  in 
these  days.  How  did  it  happen? 

She  said  that  she  had  discovered  him  for  her- 
self— many  years  ago. 

How  many  years? 

Well,  to  be  explicit,  ten.  She  had  been  eleven 
when  she  had  found  a  new  world  in  the  fat  little 
books.  They  had  a  lot  of  old  books.  She  loved 
them  all.  But  Dickens  more  than  any.  Didn't 
he? 

He  did.  "  His  heart  beat  with  the  heart  of  the 
common  people.  It  was  that  which  made  him 
great." 

"  Murray  hates  him." 

358 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Who  is  Murray?" 

Anne  pondered.  "  Well,  he's  a  family  friend. 
We  girls  were  brought  up  on  him." 

"  Brought  up  on  him?  " 

"Yes.  Anything  Murray  likes  we  are  expected 
to  like.  If  he  doesn't  like  things  we  don't." 

"  Oh." 

"  He's  over  there  by  Mrs.  Winchell." 

Maxwell  looked  and  knew  the  type.  "  But  you 
don't  agree  about  Dickens?  " 

"  No.  And  Amy  says  that  Murray's  wiser  than 
I.  But  I'm  not  sure,  Amy  thinks  that  all  men  are 
wiser  than  women." 

Maxwell  chuckled.  Anne  was  refreshing.  She 
was  far  from  modern  in  her  modes  of  thought. 
She  was — he  hunted  for  the  word  and  found  it — 
mid- Victorian  in  her  attitude  of  mind. 

He  wondered  what  Winifred  Eeed  would  think  of 
her.  Winifred  lived  in  Chicago.  She  was  athletic 
and  intellectual.  She  wrote  tabloid  dramas,  drove 
her  own  car,  dressed  smartly,  and  took  a  great  in- 
terest in  Maxwell's  career.  She  wrote  to  him  once 
a  week,  and  he  always  answered  her  letters.  Now 
and  then  she  failed  to  write,  and  he  missed  her  let- 
ters and  told  her  so.  It  was  altogether  a  pleasant 
friendship. 

She  hated  the  idea  of  Maxwell's  farm.  She 
thought  it  a  backward  step.  "Are  you  going  to 

359 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

spend  the  precious  years  ahead  of  you  in  the  com- 
pany of  cows?  " 

"  There'll  be  pigs  too,  Winifred ;  and  chickens. 
And,  of  course,  my  horses." 

"  You  belong  in  a  world  of  men.  It's  the  secret 
of  your  success  that  men  like  you." 

"  My  cows  like  me — and  there's  great  comfort 
after  the  stress  of  a  stormy  session  in  the  repose- 
fulness  of  a  pig." 

"  I  wish  you'd  be  serious." 

"  I  am  serious.  Perhaps  it's  a  throwback,  Wini- 
fred. There  is  farmer  blood  in  my  veins." 

It  was  something  deeper  than  that.  It  was  his 
virile  joy  in  fundamentals.  He  loved  his  golden- 
eared  Guernseys  and  his  black  Berkshires  and  his 
White  Wyandottes — not  because  of  their  choiceness 
but  because  they  were  cows  and  pigs  and  chickens ; 
and  he  kept  a  pair  of  pussy  cats,  half  a  dozen  dogs, 
and  as  many  horses,  because  man  primitively  had 
made  friends  of  the  dumb  brutes  upon  whom  the 
ease  and  safety  of  his  life  depended. 

There  was,  rather  strangely,  something  about 
Anne  which  fitted  in  with  this  atavistic  idea.  She 
was,  more  than  Winifred,  a  hearthstone  woman.  A 
man  might  carry  her  over  his  threshold  and  find 
her  when  he  came  home  o'  nights.  It  was  hard  to 
visualize  Winifred  as  waiting  or  watching  or  wel- 
coming. She  was  always  going  somewhere  with  an 

360 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

air  of  having  important  things  to  do,  and  coining 
back  with  an  air  of  having  done  them.  Maxwell 
felt  that  these  important  things  were  not  connected 
in  any  way  with  domestic  matters.  One  did  not, 
indeed,  expect  domesticity  of  Winifred. 

Thus  Anne,  drawing  upon  him  by  mysterious 
forces,  drew  him  also  by  her  beauty  and  a  certain 
wistfulness  in  her  eyes.  He  had  once  had  a  dog, 
Amber  Witch,  whose  eyes  had  held  always  a  wistful 
question.  He  had  tried  to  answer  it.  She  had 
grown  old  on  his  hearth,  yet  always  to  the  end  of 
her  eyes  had  asked.  He  hoped  now  that  in  some 
celestial  hunting  ground  she  had  found  an  answer 
to  that  subtle  need. 

He  told  Anne  about  Amber  Witch.  "  I  have  one 
of  her  puppies  on  my  farm." 

She  was  much  interested.  "  I've  never  had  a 
dog ;  or  a  cat." 

11<-  had,  he  said,  a  big  pair  of  tabbies  who  slept  in 
the  hay  and  came  up  to  the  dairy  when  the  milk 
was  strained.  There  were  two  blue  porcelain 
dishes  for  their  sacred  use.  There  was,  he  said, 
milk  and  to  spare.  He  grew  eloquent  as  he  told  of 
the  number  of  quarts  daily.  He  bragged  of  his 
butter.  His  cheeses  had  won  prizes  at  county  fa  i  is. 
As  for  chickens — they  had  fresh  eggs  and  broilers 
without  end.  Ho  luid  his  own  hives,  too,  while- 
clover  honey.  And  his  housekeeper  made  hot  bis- 

361 


THE  OAT  COCKADE 

cult.  In  a  month  or  two  there'd  be  asparagus  and 
strawberries.  Say!  Yes,  he  was  eloquent. 

Anne  was  hungry.  There  had  been  a  meagre 
dinner  that  evening.  The  other  girls  had  not 
seemed  to  care.  But  Anne  had  cared. 

"  I'm  starved,"  she  had  said  as  she  had  surveyed 
the  table.  "  Let's  pawn  the  spoons  and  have  one 
square  meal." 

"  Anne ! " 

"Oh,  we're  beggars  on  horseback" — bitterly — 
"  and  I  hate  it." 

It  was  her  moment  of  rebellion  against  the 
tyranny  of  tradition.  Amy  had  had  such  a  moment 
years  ago  when  her  mother  had  taken  her  away 
from  school.  Amy  had  a  brilliant  mind,  and  she 
had  loved  study,  but  her  mother  had  brought  her 
to  see  that  there  was  no  money  for  college.  "  You'd 
better  have  a  year  or  two  in  society,  Amy.  And 
this  craze  for  higher  education  is  rather  middle- 
class." 

Ethel's  rebellion  had  come  when  she  had  wanted 
to  marry  a  round-faced  chap  who  lived  across  the 
street.  They  had  played  together  from  childhood. 
His  people  were  pleasant  folks  but  lacked  social 
background.  So  Ethel's  romance  had  been  nipped 
in  the  bud.  The  round-faced  chap  had  married  an- 
other girl.  And  now  Amy  at  thirty  and  Ethel  at 
twenty-five  were  crystallizing  into  something  rather 

362 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

hard  and  brilliant,  as  Anne  would  perhaps  crystal- 
lize if  something  didn't  happen. 

The  something  which  happened  was  Maxwell 
Sears.  Anne  listened  to  the  things  he  said  about 
his  farm  and  felt  that  they  couldn't  be  true. 

"  It  sounds  like  a  fairy  tale." 

"  It  isn't.  And  it's  all  tremendously  interest- 
ing." 

He  looked  very  much  alive  as  he  said  it,  and  Anne 
felt  the  thrill  of  his  energy  and  enthusiasm.  Mur- 
ray was  never  enthusiastic ;  neither  were  Amy  and 
Ethel.  They  were  all  indeed  a  bit  petrified. 

Before  he  left  her  Maxwell  asked  Anne  if  he 
could  call.  He  came  promptly  two  nights  later 
and  brought  with  him  a  bunch  of  violets  and  a  box 
of  chocolates.  Anne  pinned  the  violets  in  the  front 
of  the  gray  frock  that  gave  her  the  look  of  a 
cloistered  nun,  and  ate  up  the  chocolates. 

Amy  was  shocked.  "Anne,  you  positively 
gobbled " 

"  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  you  ate  a  pound  at  least." 

Anne  protested.  Maxwell  had  eaten  a  lot,  and 
Ethel  and  Amy  had  eaten  a  few,  and  Murray  had 
come  in. 

"  You  remember,  Amy,  Murray  came  in." 

"He  didn't  touch  one,  Anne.  He  never  eats 
chocolates." 

363 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

'l  He's  afraid  of  getting  fat." 

"Anne ! " 

"He  is.  When  he  takes  me  out  to  lunch  he 
thinks  of  himself,  not  of  me.  The  last  time  we  had 
grapefruit  and  broiled  mushrooms  and  lettuce ;  and 
I  wanted  chops." 

Maxwell  had  been  glad  to  see  Anne  eat  the  choc- 
olates. She  had  seemed  as  happy  as  a  child,  and 
he  had  liked  that.  There  was  nothing  childish 
about  Winifred.  She  had  been  always  grown-up 
and  competent  and  helpful.  He  felt  that  he  owed 
Winifred  a  great  deal.  They  were  not  engaged, 
but  he  rather  hoped  that  some  day  they  might 
marry.  Of  course  that  would  depend  upon  Wini- 
fred. She  would  probably  make  him  give  up  the 
farm  and  he  would  hate  that.  But  a  man  might 
give  up  a  farm  for  a  woman  like  Winifred  and  still 
have  more  than  he  deserved. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Maxwell  was  modest,  espe- 
cially where  women  were  concerned.  The  com- 
placency of  Murray  Flint,  weighing  Amy  against 
Ethel  and  Ethel  against  Amy  and  Anne  against 
both,  would  have  seemed  infamous  to  Maxwell. 
He  felt  that  it  was  only  by  the  grace  of  God  that 
any  woman  gave  herself  to  any  man.  He  had  a 
sense  of  honor  which  was  founded  on  decency 
rather  than  on  convention.  He  had  also  a  sense  of 
high  romance  which  belonged  more  fittingly  to  the 

364 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

fifteenth,  than  to  the  twentieth,  century.  He  was 
not,  however,  aware  of  it.  He  looked  upon  him- 
self as  a  plain  and  practical  chap  who  had  a  few 
things  to  work  out  politically  before  he  settled 
down  to  the  serious  business  of  farming.  Of  course 
if  he  married  Winifred  he  wouldn't  settle  down  to 
the  farm,  but  he  would  settle  down  to  something. 

In  the  meantime  here  was  Anne,  reading  Dickens, 
eating  chocolates,  and  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the 
House  Gallery  to  listen  to  his  speeches. 

It  was  rather  wonderful  to  have  her  there.  She 
wore  a  gray  cape  with  a  chinchilla  collar  made  out 
of  Amy's  old  muff.  A  straight  sailor  hat  of  rough, 
straw  came  well  down  over  her  forehead  and 
showed  fluffs  of  shining  hair  at  the  sides.  Her 
little  gray-gloved  hands  clasped  the  violets  he  had 
given  her.  Above  the  violets  her  eyes  were  a 
deeper  blue. 

She  came  always  alone.  "Amy  doesn't  know," 
she  had  told  him  frankly;  "she  wouldn't  let  me 
come  if  she  did." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  I  am  supposed  to  be  chaperoned." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  told  you  to  bring  either  or  both 
of  your  sisters." 

"  I  don't  want  them.     They  would  spoil  it." 

"  How?  " 

She  tried  to  explain.  He  and  she  could  see 
365 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

things  in  the  old  Capitol  that  Amy  and  Ethel 
couldn't. 

He  laughed,  but  knew  it  true.  Anne's  imagina- 
tion met  his  in  a  rather  remarkable  fashion.  When 
they  walked  through  Statuary  Hall  they  saw  not 
Fulton  and  Pere  Marquette  and  Carroll  of  Carroll- 
ton;  they  saw,  rather,  a  thousand  ships  issuing 
forth  on  the  steam  of  a  teakettle ;  they  saw  civiliza- 
tion following  a  black-f rocked  prophet;  they  saw 
aristocracy  raising  its  voice  in  the  interest  of 
democracy. 

As  for  the  mysterious  whispering  echo,  they  re- 
pudiated all  talk  of  acoustics.  It  was  for  them 
an  eerie  thing,  like  the  laughter  of  elves  or  the 
shriek  of  a  banshee. 

"  Don't  say  every-day  things  to  me,"  Anne  had  in- 
structed Maxwell  when  he  had  first  placed  her  be- 
hind a  mottled  marble  pillar  before  leaving  for  the 
spot  where  he  could  speak  to  her  by  this  unique 
wireless. 

There  came  to  her,  therefore,  a  part  of  a  famous 
speech;  the  murmured  words  flung  back  by  that 
strange  sounding  board  rang  like  a  bell : 

"  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death !  " 

She  emerged  from  her  corner,  starry-eyed.  "  It 
was  as  if  I  heard  him  say  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  he,  and  I  was  only  a  mouth- 
piece." 

366 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

"  I  should  think  they'd  like  to  come  back.  Will 
you  come?  " 

He  laughed.  "Who  knows?  I'll  come  if  you 
are  here." 

To  have  brought  a  third  into  these  adventures 
would  have  robbed  them  of  charm.  Knowing  this 
he  argued  that  the  child  was  safe  with  him.  Why 
worry? 

They  always  lunched  together  before  he  took  her 
up  to  the  Members'  Gallery,  and  went  himself  to 
the  floor  of  the  House.  He  let  her  order  what  she 
pleased  and  liked  the  definite  way  in  which  she 
did  it.  They  had,  usually,  chops  and  peas,  or 
steak,  and  ice-cream  at  the  end. 

Ill 

Then  suddenly  things  stopped.  The  reason  that 
they  stopped  was  Murray.  He  saw  Anne  one  day 
in  the  House  Gallery  and  asked  Amy  about  it. 

"  How  did  she  happen  to  be  up  there  alone?  " 

Amy  asked  Anne.    Anne  told  the  truth. 

"  I've  had  lunch  three  times  with  Mr.  Sears,  and 
I've  listened  to  his  speeches.  It's  something  about 
the  League  of  Nations.  He  believes  in  it,  but  thinks 
we've  got  to  be  careful  about  tying  ourselves  up." 

Amy  did  not  care  in  the  least  what  Maxwell 
Sears  believed.  The  thing  that  worried  her  was 
Murray.  She  wanted  him  to  approve  of  Anne.  If 

367 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Amy  had  thought  in  a  less  limited  circle  she  might 
have  worked  the  thing  out  that  if  Maxwell  mar- 
ried Anne  it  would  narrow  Murray's  choice  down 
to  herself  and  Ethel.  But  there  was  always  that 
vague  fear  of  some  outside  siren  who  would  cap- 
ture Murray.  If  he  had  Anne,  he  would  then  be 
safely  in  the  family. 

She  realized,  in  the  days  following  the  revelation 
of  the  clandestine  meetings  with  Maxwell,  that 
Murray  was  depending  upon  her  to  see  that  Anne's 
affections  did  not  stray  into  forbidden  paths.  He 
said  as  much  one  afternoon  when  he  found  Amy 
alone  in  an  atmosphere  of  old  portraits,  old  books, 
old  bronzes.  She  sat  in  a  Jacobean  chair  and 
poured  tea  for  him.  The  massive  lines  of  the  chair 
made  her  proportions  seem  wraithlike.  Her  white 
face  with  its  fixed  spots  of  red  was  a  high  light 
among  the  shadows. 

"  Where's  Anne?  " 

"  She  and  Ethel  have  gone  to  the  matinee  with 
Molly  Winchell." 

"Why  didn't  you  go?" 

"  Molly  never  takes  but  two  of  us  and,  of  course, 
this  is  Anne's  first  winter  out.  I  have  to  step 
back — and  let  her  have  her  chance." 

He  chose  to  be  gallant.  "  You  are  always  lovely, 
Amy." 

His  compliment  fell  cold.    Amy  felt  old  and 
368 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

tired.  She  had  a  pain  in  her  side.  It  had  been 
getting  very  bad  of  late,  and  she  coughed  at  night. 
She  had  been  to  her  doctor,  and  again  he  had  em- 
phasized the  need  of  a  change  of  climate  and  of 
nourishing  food.  Amy  had  come  away  uncon- 
vinced. 

She  •would  have  a  chance  in  July  when  she  and 
her  sisters  would  go  to  the  Eastern  Shore  for  their 
annual  visit  to  their  Aunt  Elizabeth.  As  for  dif- 
ferent food,  she  ate  enough — all  the  doctors  in  the 
world  couldn't  make  her  spend  any  more  money  on 
the  table. 

Murray  stood  up  very  straight  by  the  mantel- 
piece, under  the  portrait  of  one  of  the  Merryman 
great-grandfathers  in  a  bag  wig,  and  talked  of 
Anne: 

"  I  believe  I  am  falling  in  love  with  her,  Amy." 

Amy's  heart  said,  "  It  has  come  at  last."  Her 
brain  said,  "He  has  discovered  it  because  of  Max- 
well Sears."  Her  lips  said,  "I  don't  wonder. 
She's  a  dear  child,  Murray." 

"  She's  beautiful." 

Murray  swayed  up  a  little  on  his  toes.  It  made 
him  seem  thinner  and  taller.  He  could  see  him- 
self reflected  in  the  long  mirror  on  the  opposite 
wall.  He  liked  the  reflection  of  the  thin  tall 
man. 

"  She's  beautiful,  Amy.  I  am  going  to  ask  her 
369 


THE  OAT  COCKADE 

to  marry  me.  I  can't  have  some  other  fellow  run- 
ning off  with  her.  She  belongs  to  Georgetown." 

He  seemed  to  think  that  settled  it.  The  pain  in 
Amy's  side  was  sharper.  She  felt  that  she  couldn't 
quite  stand  seeing  Murray  happy  with  Anne. 
"  She's — she's  such  a  child."  Her  voice  shook. 

"  Well,"  said  Murray,  glancing  at  the  tall  thin 
man  in  the  mirror,  "  of  course  she  is  young.  But 
Maxwell  Sears  is  coming  here  a  lot.  Is  he  in  love 
with  her?" 

"  I'm  not  sure.  She  amuses  Mm.  She  isn't  in 
love  with  him  or  with  anybody." 

"JSbt  even  with  me?"  Murray  laughed  a  little. 
"But  we  can  remedy  that,  can't  we,  Amy?  But 
you  might  hint  at  what  I'm  expecting  of  her.  I 
don't  want  to  startle  her."  He  came  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  "You  are  always  a  great  dear  about 
doing  things  for  me." 

The  pain  stabbed  her  like  a  knife.  "  I'll  do  my 
best." 

She  had  a  nervous  feeling  that  she  must  keep 
Murray  from  talking  to  her  like  that.  She  rang  for 
hot  water,  and  their  one  maid,  Charlotte,  brought 
it  in  a  Sheffield  jug.  Then  Ethel  and  Anne  and 
Molly  Winchell  arrived,  and  once  more  Murray 
stood  up,  tall  and  self-conscious  as  he  stole  side 
glances  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 

Maxwell  Sears  had  brought  the  three  women 
370 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

home.  He  had  a  fashion  of  following  up  Anne's 
engagements  and  putting  his  car  at  her  disposal. 
When  Amy  had  vetoed  any  more  adventures  at  the 
Capitol  he  had  conceded  good-naturedly  that  she 
was  right.  After  that  he  had  always  included 
Amy  or  Ethel  in  his  invitations. 

"  They  are  very  pretty  dragons,"  he  had  written 
to  Winifred,  "and  little  Anne  is  like  a  princess 
shut  in  a  tower." 

Winifred,  reading  the  letter,  had  brooded  upon 
it.  "He's  falling  in  love.  A  child  like  that — 
she'll  spoil  his  future." 

Congress  was  having  night  sessions.  "  If  I  could 
only  have  you  up  there,"  Maxwell  had  said  to  Anne 
as  he  had  driven  her  home  from  the  matine'e,  with 
old  Molly  and  Ethel  on  the  back  seat.  "  I  should 
steal  you  if  I  dared." 

"  Please  dare." 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  " 

"  Yes.  To-night.  Ethel  and  Amy  are  going  to 
a  Colonial  Dames  meeting  with  Molly  Winchell.  I 
never  go.  I  hate  ancestors." 

"  I  shouldn't  let  you  do  it,"  he  hesitated,  "  but 
ghosts  walk  after  dark  in  the  Capitol  corridors." 

"I  know,"  she  nodded.  "Washington,  Jeffer- 
son, Lincoln." 

"  Yes.    Then  you'll  come?  " 

"  Of  course." 

371 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  rendezvous  with  him 
that  lighted  her  eyes  when  she  talked  to  Murray. 
But  Murray  did  not  know.  So  he  swayed  up  on 
his  toes  and  glanced  in  the  glass  and  was  glad  of 
his  thinness  and  tallness. 

Maxwell  came  for  Anne  promptly.  "  You  must 
get  me  back  by  ten,"  she  told  him.  "  I  have  a  key, 
and  Charlotte's  out." 

It  was  a  night  of  nights,  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Maxwell  did  not  take  Anne  into  the  Gallery.  He 
had  not  brought  her  there  to  hear  speeches  or  to 
be  conspicuous  in  the  glare  of  lights.  He  led  her 
through  shadowy  corridors — up  wide  rHm  stair- 
ways. 

At  one  turn  he  touched  her  arm.  "  Look !  "  he 
whispered. 

"  What?  " 

"  Lafayette  passed  us — on  the  stairs." 

It  was  a  great  game !  On  the  east  front  Colum- 
bus spoke  to  them  of  ships  that  sailed  toward  the 
sunset;  in  the  Rotunda  they  kept  a  tryst  with  Will- 
iam Penn;  from  the  west-front  portico  they  saw  a 
city  beautiful — the  streets  under  the  moon  were 
rivers  of  light — the  great  monument  reached  like 
the  soul  of  Washington  toward  the  stars ! 

Out  there  in  the  moonlight  Maxwell  spoke  of  an- 
other great  soul,  gone  of  late  to  join  a  glorious  com- 
pany. 

372 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

"  It  was  lie  who  taught  me  that  life  is  an  ad- 
venture." 

"Greatheart?" 

"  Yes." 

"You  loved  him  too?" 

"  Yes." 

Anne  caught  her  breath.  "To  think  of  him 
dead — to  think  of  them  all — dead." 

Maxwell  looked  down  at  her.  "  They  live  some- 
where. You  believe  that,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  laid  his 
hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder.  "  I  feel  to-night  as 
if  they  pressed  close." 

Oh,  it  was  a  rare  game  to  meet  great  souls  in  odd 
corners!  They  could  scarcely  tear  themselves 
away.  But  he  got  her  home  before  her  sisters  ar- 
rived, and  Anne  went  to  bed  soberly,  and  lay  long 
awake,  thinking  it  out.  She  had  never  before  had 
such  a  playmate.  In  all  these  years  she  had  starved 
for  other  things  than  food. 

IV 

In  due  time  Congress  adjourned,  but  Maxwell 
did  not  go  home.  He  continued  to  see  Anne. 
Amy  was  at  last  driven  to  her  duty  by  Murray. 
She  could  not  forbid  Maxwell  the  house.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  talk  to  Anne. 

373 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

Having  made  up  her  mind  she  sought  Anne's 
room  at  once.  Anne,  in  a  cheap  cotton  kimono, 
was  braiding  her  hair  for  the  night.  The  sleeves 
of  the  kimono  were  short  and  showed  her  thin 
white  arms.  Amy  had  on  a  blanket  wrapper.  Her 
hair  was  in  metal  curlers.  She  looked  old  and 
tired,  and  now  and  then  she  coughed. 

Anne  got  into  bed  and  drew  the  covers  up  to  her 
chin.  "  I'm  so  cold,  I  believe  there  are  icicles  on 
my  eyebrows.  Amy,  my  idea  of  heaven  is  a  place 
where  it  is  as  hot  as — Hades." 

"I  don't  see  where  you  get  such  ideas.  Ethel 
and  I  don't  talk  that  way.  We  don't  even  think 
that  way,  Anne." 

"Maybe  when  I  am  as  old  as  you "  Anne 

began,  and  was  startled  at  the  look  on  Amy's  face. 

"  I'm  not  old ! "  Amy  said  passionately.  "Anne, 
I  haven't  lived  at  all,  and  I'm  only  thirty." 

Anne  stared  at  her.  "  Oh,  my  darling,  I  didn't 
mean " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't.  And  it  was  silly  of  me 
to  say  such  a  thing.  Anne,  I'm  cold.  I'm  going 
to  sit  on  the  foot  of  your  bed  and  wrap  up  while  I 
talk  to  you." 

Anne's  bed  had  four  pineapple  posts  and  a  pink 
canopy.  The  governor  of  a  state  had  slept  in  that 
bed  for  years.  He  was  one  of  the  Merryman  grand- 
fathers. Amy  could  have  bought  mountains  of 

374 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

food  for  the  price  of  that  bed.  But  she  would  have 
starved  rather  than  sell  it. 

Anne  under  the  pink  canopy  was  like  a  rose — a 
white  rose  with  a  faint  flush.  The  color  in  Amy's 
cheeks  was  fixed  and  hard.  Yet  even  with  her  old- 
ness  and  tiredness  and  metal  curlers  she  had  the 
look  of  race  which  attracted  Murray. 

"Anne,"  she  said,  "Murray  and  I  had  a  long 
talk  about  you  the  other  day." 

"  Murray  always  talks — long."  Anne  was  yawn- 
ing. 

"  Please  be  serious,  ATI  Tie.  He  wants  to  marry 
you." 

"  Marry  me !  "  incredulously.  "  I  thought  it  was 
you ;  or  Ethel." 

"  Well,  it  isn't,"  wearily.  "And  it's  a  great  op- 
portunity— for  you,  Anne." 

"  Opportunity  for  what?  " 

Amy  had  a  sense  of  the  futility  of  trying  to  ex- 
plain. 

"  There  aren't  many  men  like  him." 

"  Fortunately." 

"Anne,  how  can  you?  He's  really  paying  you  a 
great  compliment." 

"  Why  didn't  lie  ask  me  himself?  " 

"  He  didn't  want  to  startle  you.  You're  so 
young.  Murray  has  extreme  fineness  of  feel- 


ing." 


375 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

Anne  tilted  her  chin.     "  I  don't  see  what  he  finds 

in  me." 

"You're  young" — with  a  tinge  of  bitterness— 
"and  he  says  you  are  beautiful." 

Anne  threw  off  the  covers  and  set  her  bare  feet  on 
the  floor.  "  Beautiful !  "  she  scoffed,  but  went  to 
the  mirror.  "  I'm  thin,"  she  meditated,  "  but  I've 
got  nice  hair." 

"  We  all  have  nice  hair,"  said  Amy;  "  but  you've 
got  Ethel's  complexion  and  my  figure." 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to  be  loved  for  my  com- 
plexion." Anne  turned  suddenly  and  faced  her 
sister.  "  Or  my  figure.  I'd  rather  be  loved  for 
my  mind." 

"Men  don't  love  women  for  their  minds,"  said 
Amy  wearily.  "  You'll  learn  that  when  you  have 
lived  as  long  as  I  have.  Get  back  into  bed,  Anne. 
You'll  freeze." 

But  Anne,  shivering  in  the  cotton  kimono,  argued 
the  question  hotly :  "  I  should  think  Murray  would 
want  to  marry  some  one  with  congenial  tastes.  He 
hates  everything  that  I  like." 

"He'll  make  an  excellent  husband.  You  ought 
to  be  happy  to  know  that  he — cares." 

She  began  to  cough — a  racking  cough  that  left 
her  exhausted. 

Anne,  bending  over  her,  said,  "Why,  Amy,  are 
you  sick?" 

376 


'BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

"  I'm — I'm  rather  wretched,  Anne." 

"Are  you  taking  anything  for  your  cough?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  doctor." 

"  I  have  had  one." 

"  What  did  he  say?  " 

Amy  put  her  off.  "  I'll  feel  better  in  the  morn- 
ing, Anne.  Don't  worry."  Again  the  cough  tore 
her.  Anne  flew  to  Ethel. 

"  See  what  you  can  do  for  her.  There  is  blood 
on  her  handkerchief!  I  am  going  to  call  a  doc- 
tor." 

The  doctor,  arriving,  checked  the  cough.  Later 
he  told  Anne  that  Amy  must  have  a  change  and 
strengthening  food. 

"At  once.  She's  in  a  very  serious  state.  I've 
told  her,  but  she  won't  listen." 

In  the  days  that  followed  Anne  arraigned  her- 
self hotly.  "I've  been  a  selfish  pig — eating  up 
everything — and  Amy  needed  it." 

In  this  state  of  mind  she  fasted — and  was 
famished. 

Maxwell,  noting  her  paleness,  demanded,  "What's 
the  matter?  Aren't  you  well?  " 

She  wanted  to  cry  out,  "  I'm  hungry."  But  she, 
too,  had  her  pride. 

"Amy's  ill." 

He  got  it  out  of  her  finally.  "The  doctor  is 
377 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

much  worried  about  her.  He  says  she  needs  a 
change." 

"  You  need  it  too." 

She  needed  food,  but  she  couldn't  tell  him  that. 
The  state  of  their  exchequer  was  alarming.  It  had 
been  revealed  to  her  since  Amy's  illness  that  there 
was  really  nothing  coming  in  until  the  next  quarter. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  Charlotte  go,  Ethel?  " 

"  We've  always  had  a  maid.  What  would  people 
think?  " 

"And  because  of  what  people  think,  Amy  is  to 
starve?  " 

"Anne,  how  can  you?  " 

"  Well,  it  comes  to  that.  She  needs  things ;  and 
we  don't  need  Charlotte." 

But  when  they  spoke  to  Amy  of  sending  Char- 
lotte away  she  was  feverishly  excited.  "  There's 
nobody  to  do  the  work." 

"  I  can  do  it,"  said  Anne. 

"We  Merrymans  have  never  worked,"  "Amy  be- 
gan to  cry.  "  I'd  rather  die,"  she  said,  "  than  have 
people  think  we  are — poor." 

V 

Maxwell  was  a  man  of  action.  When  he  saw 
Anne  pale  he  sought  a  remedy.  "  Look  here,  why 
can't  you  and  your  sisters  come  out  to  my  farm?  " 

Anne,  remembering  certain  things — broilers  and 
378 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

fresh  eggs — was  tlirilled  by  the  invitation.  "  I'd 
love  it!  But  Amy  won't  accept." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  She's  terribly  stiff." 

He  laughed.     "  Perhaps  I  can  talk  her  over." 

Amy,  lying  on  her  couch,  very  weary,  facing  a 
shadowy  future,  felt  his  magnetism  as  he  talked  to 
her.  It  was  as  if  life  spoke  through  his  lips. 
Murray  had  sat  there  beside  her  only  an  hour  be- 
fore. He  had  brought  her  roses  but  he  had  brought 
no  hope. 

Fear  had  for  weeks  kept  Amy  company.  Through 
her  nights  and  days  it  had  stalked,  a  pale  spectre. 
And  now  Maxwell  was  saying :  "  You'll  be  well  in 
a  month.  Of  course  you'll  come!  There's  room 
for  half  a  dozen.  You  three  won't  half  fill  the 
house." 

It  was  decided,  however,  that  Ethel  must  stay  in 
town.  Amy  had  a  nervous  feeling  that  with  the 
house  closed  Murray  might  slip  away  from  them. 

Old  Molly  Winchell,  summing  up  the  situation, 
said  to  Murray :  "  Of  course  Anne  will  marry  Max- 
well Sears.  There's  nothing  like  propinquity." 

Murray,  startled,  admitted  the  danger.  "It 
would  be  an  awful  thing  for  Anne." 

«  Why?  " 

"  He's  rather  a  bounder." 

Old  Molly  Winchell  hit  him  on  the  arm  with  her 
379 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

fan.  Her  eyes  twinkled  maliciously.  "  He's  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  and  you  know  it.  You're  jealous, 
Murray." 

Murray's  jealousy  was,  quite  uniquely,  not 
founded  on  any  great  depth  of  love  for  Anne.  His 
appropriation  of  the  three  sisters  had  been  a  pretty 
and  pleasant  pastime.  When  he  had  finally  de- 
cided upon  Anne  as  the  pivotal  center  of  his  uni- 
verse he  had  contemplated  a  future  in  which  the 
other  sisters  also  figured — especially  Amy.  He 
had,  indeed,  not  thought  of  a  world  without  Amy. 

Her  illness  had  troubled  him,  but  not  greatly. 
Things  had  always  come  to  him  as  he  had  wanted 
them,  and  he  was  quite  sure  that  if  Anne  was  to  be 
the  flame  to  light  his  future,  Providence  would 
permit  Amy  to  be,  as  it  were,  the  keeper  of  the 
light. 

He  felt  it  necessary  to  warn  Anne :  "  Don't  fall 
in  love  with  Sears." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Murray." 

"  Is  it  silly  to  say  that  I  love  you,  Anne?  " 

They  were  alone  in  the  old  library,  with  its  books 
and  bronzes  and  bag-wigged  ancestors.  And  Mur- 
ray sat  down  beside  Anne  and  took  her  hand  in  his 
and  said,  "  I  love  you,  Anne." 

It  was  a  proposal  which  was  not  to  be  treated 
lightly.  In  spite  of  herself,  Anne  was  flattered. 
Murray  had  always  loomed  on  her  horizon  as  some- 

380 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

tiling  of  a  bore  but  none  the  less  a  person  of  im- 
portance. 

She  caught  her  breath  quickly.  "  Please,  Mur- 
ray"— her  blushes  were  bewitching — "I'm  too 
young  to  think  about  such  things.  And  I'm  not  in 
love  with  anybody." 

Murray  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  Keep  your- 
self for  me,  little  Anne."  He  rose  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "  You're  a  very  charming  child," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  know  it?  " 

Anne,  gazing  at  herself  in  the  glass  later,  won- 
dered if  it  were  true.  It  was  nice  of  Murray  to 
say  it.  But  she  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  with 
Murray.  He  was  too  old.  And  Maxwell  was  too 
old.  Anne's  dreams  of  romance  had  to  do  with 
glorified  youth.  She  wanted  a  young  Romeo 
shouting  his  passion  to  the  stars ! 

She  packed  her  bag,  however,  in  high  anticipa- 
tion. Maxwell  was  a  splendid  playmate,  and  she 
thought  of  his  farm  as  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey ! 

Maxwell  wrote  to  Winifred  that  he  was  coming 
home  and  bringing  guests. 

"  Run  down  and  meet  them.  Anne's  a  corking 
kid." 

Winifred  knew  what  had  happened.  Some  girl 
had  i*ot  hold  of  Maxwell.  It  was  always  the  way 
with  men  like  that — big  men ;  they  were  credulous 

381 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

creatures  where  women  were  concerned,  and  it 
would  make  such  a  difference  to  Maxwell's  future 
if  he  married  the  wrong  woman. 

She  decided  to  go  down  as  soon  as  she  could. 
She  felt  that  she  ought  to  hurry,  but  there  were 
things  that  held  her.  And  so  it  happened  that  be- 
fore she  reached  the  farm  Maxwell  had  asked  Anne 
to  marry  him.  There  had  been  a  cool  evening  when 
the  scent  of  lilacs  had  washed  in  great  waves 
through  the  open  windows.  Amy  had  gone  to  bed 
and  he  and  Anne  had  dined  alone  with  the  flare  of 
candles  between  them,  and  the  rest  of  the  room  in 
pleasant  shadow.  And  then  their  coffee  had  been 
served,  and  Aunt  Mittie,  his  housekeeper,  had 
asked  if  there  was  anything  else,  and  had  with- 
drawn, and  he  had  risen  and  had  walked  round  to 
Anne's  place  and  had  laid  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders. 

"  Little  Anne,"  he  had  said,  "  I  should  like  to  see 
you  here  always." 

"Here?" 

"As  my  wife." 

"  Oh ! " 

She  had  had  a  rapturous  week  at  the  farm.  She 
had  never  known  anything  like  it.  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth, of  the  Eastern  Shore,  lived  in  a  sleepy  town, 
and  Anne's  other  brief  vacations  had  been  spent  in 
more  or  less  fashionable  resorts.  But  here  was  a 

382 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

paradise  of  plenty ;  the  big  wide  house,  the  spread- 
ing barns,  the  opulent  garden,  the  rolling  fields,  the 
enchanting  creatures  who  were  sheltered  by  the 
barns  and  fed  by  the  fields,  and  who  in  return  gave 
payment  of  yellow  cream  and  warm  white  eggs,  and 
who  lowed  at  night  and  cackled  in  the  morning,  and 
whose  days  were  measured  by  the  rising  and  the 
setting  of  the  sun. 

She  loved  it  all — the  purring  pussies,  the  com- 
panionable pups,  the  steady,  faithful  older  dogs,  the 
lambs  in  the  pasture,  the  good  things  to  eat. 

She  was  glowing  with  gratitude,  and  Maxwell 
was  asking  insistently,  "  Won't  you,  Anne?  " 

She  had  never  been  so  happy,  and  he  was  the 
source  of  her  happiness.  Against  this  background 
of  vivid  life  the  thought  of  Murray  was  a  pale 
memory. 

So  her  wistful  eyes  met  Maxwell's.  "  It  would 
be  lovely — to  live  here — always." 

Later,  when  she  had  started  up-stairs  with  her 
candle,  he  had  kissed  her,  leaning  over  the  rail  to 
watch  her  as  she  went  up,  and  Anne  had  gone  to 
sleep  tremulous  with  the  thought  that  her  future 
would  lie  here  in  this  great  house  with  this  fine 
and  kindly  man. 

Winifred,  coming  down  at  last,  found  that  she 
had  come  too  late.  Maxwell  told  her  as  they  mo- 
tored up  from  the  station. 

383 


THE  GAT  COCKADE 

"  Wish  me  happiness,  Win.     I  am  going  to  marry 

little  Anne." 

It  did  not  enter  his  head  for  a  moment  that  the 
woman  by  his  side  loved  him.  He  had  thought  that 
if  she  ever  married  him  it  would  be  a  sort  of  con- 
cession on  her  part,  a  sacrifice  to  her  interest  in  his 
future.  He  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  be  glad 
if  such  a  sacrifice  were  not  demanded. 

But  Winifred  was  not  glad.  "  You  are  sure  you 
are  making  no  mistake,  Max?  " 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her." 

Winifred  waited  and  saw.  "  She's  not  in  the 
least  in  love  with  him.  She  likes  the  warm  nest 
she  has  fallen  into.  And  she'll  spoil  his  future. 
He'll  settle  down  here,  and  he  belongs  to  the  world." 

He  belonged  at  least  to  his  constituency. 

"  I've  got  to  make  a  speech,"  he  told  the  three 
women  one  morning,  "  in  a  town  twenty  miles 
away.  If  you  girls  would  like  the  ride  you  can 
motor  over  with  me.  You  needn't  listen  to  my 
speech  if  you  don't  want  to." 

Amy  and  Winifred  said  that  of  course  they 
wanted  to  listen.  Anne  smiled  happily  and  said 
nothing.  She  was,  of  course,  glad  to  go,  but  Max- 
well's speeches  were  to  her  the  abstract  things  of 
life;  the  concrete  things  at  this  moment  were  the 
delicious  dinner  which  was  before  her  and  the  fact 
that  in  the  barn,  curled  up  in  the  hay,  was  a  new 

384 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

family  of  kittens — little  tabbies  like  their  adoring 
mother. 

"  Isn't  it  a  lovely  world?  "  she  had  said  to  her 
lover  as  she  had  sat  in  the  loft  with  the  cuddly  cats 
in  her  lap. 

"  Yes." 

He  knew  that  it  was  not  all  lovely,  that  some- 
where there  were  lean  and  hungry  kittens  and  lean 
and  hungry  folks — but  why  remind  her  at  such  a 
moment? 

VI 

On  the  way  over  Anne  sat  with  Winifred.  She 
had  insisted  that  Amy  should  have  the  front  seat 
with  Max.  Amy  was  much  better.  Life  had  begun 
to  flow  into  her  veins  like  wine.  She  had  written 
to  Murray :  "  It  is  as  if  a  miracle  had  happened." 

Winifred,  on  the  back  seat,  talked  to  Anne.  She 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  Maxwell's  future. 
"  I  am  sorry  he  bought  the  farm." 

"  Oh,  not  really."  Anne's  attention  strayed. 
She  had  one  of  the  puppies  in  her  lap.  He  kept 
peeping  out  from  between  the  folds  of  her  cape 
with  his  bright  eyes.  "Isn't  he  a  darling,  Wini- 
fred? " 

"  He  ought  to  sell  it."  Winifred  liked  dogs,  but 
at  this  moment  she  wanted  Anne's  attention.  "  He 
ought  to  sell  the  farm.  He  has  a  great  future  be- 

385 


TEE  GAY  COCKADE 

fore  Mm.  Everybody  says  it.  He  simply  must  not 
settle  down." 

"  Oh,  well,  he  won't,"  said  Anne  easily. 

"  He  will  if  you  let  him." 

"If  I  let  him?" 

"  If  he  thinks  you  like  it." 

There  was  a  deep  flush  on  Winifred's  cheeks. 
She  was  really  a  very  handsome  girl,  with  bright 
brown  hair  and  brown  eyes.  She  wore  a  small 
brown  hat  and  a  sable  collar.  The  collar  was  open 
and  showed  her  strong  white  throat. 

"  If  he  thinks  you  like  it,"  she  repeated,  "  he  will 
stay;  and  he  belongs  to  the  world;  nobody  must 
hold  him  back.  He's  the  biggest  man  in  his  party 
to-day.  There  is  no  limit  to  his  powers." 

Anne  stared  at  her.  "  Of  course  there  isn't." 
She  wondered  why  Winifred  seemed  so  terribly  in 
earnest  about  it.  She  pulled  the  puppy's  ears. 
"  But  I  should  hate  to  have  him  sell  the  farm." 

Winifred  settled  back  with  a  sharp  sigh  and 
gazed  at  the  long  gray  road  ahead  of  her.  She 
gazed  indeed  into  a  rather  blank  future.  Her 
talents  would  be,  she  felt,  to  some  extent  wasted. 
Ti  Max  rose  to  greater  heights  of  fame  it  would  be 
because  of  his  own  unaided  efforts.  This  child 
would  be  no  help  to  him. 

The  speech  Max  made  to  his  constituents  was  not 
cool  and  clear-cut  like  the  speeches  which  Anne  had 

386 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

heard  him  make  to  his  colleagues  in  the  House.  He 
spoke  now  with  warmth  and  persuasiveness.  Anne, 
sitting  in  the  big  car  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd, 
found  herself  listening  intently.  She  was  aware, 
as  he  went  on,  of  a  new  Max.  The  mass  of  men 
who  had  gathered  were  largely  foreigners  who 
knew  Httle  of  the  real  meanings  of  democracy. 
Max  was  telling  them  what  it  meant  to  be  a  good 
American.  He  told  it  simply,  but  he  was  in  dead 
earnest.  Anne  felt  that  this  earnestness  was  the 
secret  of  his  power.  He  wanted  men  to  be  good 
Americans,  he  wanted  them  to  know  the  privileges 
they  might  enjoy  in  a  free  country,  and  he  was  tell- 
ing them  how  to  keep  it  free — not  by  violence  and 
mob  rule  but  by  remembering  their  obligations  as 
citizens.  He  told  them  that  they  must  be  always 
on  the  side  of  law  and  order,  that  they  must  fight 
injustice  not  with  the  bomb  and  the  red  flag  but 
with  their  votes. 

"  Vote  for  the  man  you  trust,  and  not  for  the 
man  who  inflames  your  passions.  Your  vote  is  a 
sacred  thing;  when  you  sell  it  you  dishonor  your- 
self. Respect  yourself,  and  you'll  respect  the  coun- 
try that  has  made  a  man  of  you." 

The  response  was  immediate,  the  applause 
tumultuous.  After  his  speech  they  crowded  about 
him.  They  knew  him  for  their  friend.  But  they 
knew  him  for  more  than  that.  He  asked  nothing  of 

387 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

their  manhood  but  the  best.  He  preached  honesty 
and  practiced  it. 

Yet  as  he  climbed  into  the  car  Anne  had  little 
to  say  to  him.  Winifred,  leaning  forward,  was 
emphatic  in  her  praise : 

"  You  have  no  right  to  bury  yourself,  Max." 

"  My  dear  girl,  I'm  not  dead  yet."  He  was  a 
bit  impatient.  He  had  hoped  for  a  word  from 
Anne.  But  she  sat  silent,  pulling  the  puppy's  ears. 

"  He's  asleep,"  she  said  finally  as  she  caught  the 
inquiry  in  her  lover's  eyes.  "  He's  tired  out,  poor 
darling." 

She  seemed  indifferent,  but  she  was  not.  She 
had  been  much  stirred.  She  had  a  strange  feeling 
that  something  had  happened  to  her  while  she  had 
listened  to  Maxwell's  speech.  Some  string  had 
broken  and  her  romance  was  out  of  tune. 

She  lay  awake  for  a  long  time  that  night,  think- 
ing it  over.  She  grew  hot  with  the  thought  of  tka 
limitations  of  her  previous  conception  of  her 
lover.  She  had  considered  him  a  sort  of  back- 
ground for  the  pleasant  things  he  could  do  for  her. 
She  had  fitted  him  to  the  measure  of  the  boxes  of 
candy  that  he  had  brought  her,  the  luncheons  in 
the  House  restaurant,  the  bountiful  hospitality  of 
the  farm.  How  lightly  she  had  looked  down  on 
him  as  he  had  stood  below  her  on  the  stairs  with 
her  candle  in  his  hand.  How  casually  she  had  ac- 

388 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

cepted  his  kiss.  She  had  a  sudden  feeling  that  she 
must  not  let  him  kiss  her  again ! 

Early  in  the  morning  she  went  into  Amy's  room. 
"Amy,"  she  said,  "  how  soon  do  you  think  we  can 
go  to  Aunt  Elizabeth's?  " 

"Aunt  Elizabeth's?    Why,  Anne?" 

"  I  want  to  leave  here." 

"  To  leave  here?  "  Amy  sat  up.  Even  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  morning  her  face  looked  young. 
Good  food  and  fresh  air  had  done  much  for  her. 
It  had  been  quite  heavenly,  too,  to  let  care  slip 
away,  to  have  no  thought  of  what  she  should  eat  or 
what  she  should  drink  or  what  she  should  wear. 
"  To  leave  here?  I  thought  you  loved  it,  Anne." 

"  I've  got  to  get  away.  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
Maxwell,  Amy." 

"Anne!    What  made  you  change  your  mind?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you.  Please  don't  ask  me.  But  I 
wish  you  would  write  to  Aunt  Elizabeth." 

"I  had  a  letter  from  her  yesterday.  She  says 
we  can  come  at  any  time.  But — have  you  told 
Max?" 

"  STot  yet." 

"  Has  he  done  anything?  " 

"  No.  It's  just — that  I  can't  marry  him.  Don't 
ask  me,  Amy."  She  broke  down  in  a  storm  of  tears. 

Amy,  soothing  her,  wondered  if  after  all  Anne 
cared  for  Murray  Flint.  It  was,  she  felt,  the  only 

389 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

solution  possible.  Surely  a  girl  would  not  throw 
away  a  chance  to  marry  a  man  like  Maxwell  Sears 
for  nothing. 

For  Amy  had  learned  in  the  days  that  she  had 
spent  at  the  farm  that  Maxwell  Sears  was  a  man  to 
reckon  with.  She  was  very  grateful  for  what  he 
had  done  for  her,  and  she  had  been  glad  of  Anne's 
engagement.  Murray  would  perhaps  be  disap- 
pointed, but  there  would  still  be  herself  and  Ethel. 

It  was  not  easy  to  explain  things  to  Maxwell. 

"Why  are  you  going  now?"  he  demanded,  and 
was  impatient  when  they  told  him  that  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth expected  them.  "  I  don't  understand  it  at  all. 
It  upsets  all  of  my  plans  for  you,  Anne." 

That  night  when  he  brought  Anne's  candle  she 
was  not  on  the  stairs.  Winifred  and  Amy  had 
gone  up. 

"Anne !    Anne !  "  he  called  softly. 

She  came  to  the  top  rail  and  leaned  over.  "  I'm 
going  to  bed  in  the  dark.  There's  a  wonderful 
moon." 

"  Come  down — for  a  minute." 

"  No." 

"  Then  I'll  come  up,"  masterfully. 

He  mounted  the  stairs  two  at  a  time ;  but  when 
he  reached  the  landing  the  door  was  shut! 

In  the  morning  he  asked  her  about  it.  "  Why, 
dearest?  " 

390 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

"  Max  dear,  I  can't  marry  you." 

"  Xonsense ! "  His  voice  was  sharp.  He  laid 
his  hands  heavily  on  her  shoulders.  "  Why  not? 
Look  at  me,  Anne.  Why  not?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  marry — anybody." 

That  was  all  he  could  get  out  of  her.  He 
pleaded,  raged,  and  grew  at  last  white  and  still 
with  anger.  "  You  might  at  least  tell  me  your 
reasons." 

She  said  that  she  would  write.  Perhaps  she 
could  say  it  better  on  paper.  And  she  was  very, 
very  sorry,  but  she  couldn't. 

Winifred  knew  that  something  was  up,  but  made 
no  comment.  Amy,  carrying  out  their  program  of 
departure,  had  a  sense  of  regret. 

After  all,  it  had  been  a  lovely  life,  and  there  were 
worse  things  than  being  a  sister  to  Maxwell  Sears. 
Her  voice  broke  a  little  as  she  tried  to  thank  him 
on  their  last  morning. 

He  wrung  her  hand.  "  Say  a  good  word  for  me 
with  Anne.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
her." 

Neither  did  Amy.  And  if  she  was  Maxwell's 
advocate  how  could  she  be  Murray's?  She  flushed 
a  little. 

"Anne's  such  a  child." 

He  remembered  how  he  had  called  her  a  corking 
kid.  She  was  more  than  that  to  him  now.  She 

391 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

stood  in  the  doorway  in  her  gray  sailor  hat  and 

gray  cape. 

"Anne,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  a  last  bunch 

of  pansies  from  the  garden.    Come  out  and  help 

me  pick  them." 

In  the  garden  he  asked,  "Are  you  going  to  kiss 

me  good-bye?  " 

"  No,  Max.    Please " 

"  Then  it's  '  God  bless  you,  dearest.' ' 

He  forgot  the  pansies  and  they  -went  back  to 

where  the  car  waited. 

VII 

Anne's  letter,  written  from  the  Eastern  Shore, 
was  a  long  and  childish  screed.  "  We  have  always 
been  beggars  on  horseback,"  she  said.  "  Of  course 
you  couldn't  know  that,  Max.  We  have  gone  with- 
out bread  so  that  we  could  be  grand  and  elegant. 
We  have  gone  without  fire  so  that  we  could  buy  our 
satin  gowns  for  fashionable  functions.  We  went 
without  butter  for  a  year  so  that  Amy  could  enter- 
tain the  Strangeways,  whom  she  had  met  years  ago 
in  Europe.  I  wouldn't  dare  tell  you  what  that  din- 
ner cost  us,  but  we  had  a  cabinet  member  or  two, 
and  the  British  Ambassador. 

"  You  wondered  why  I  liked  Dickens.  Well,  I 
read  him  so  that  I  could  get  a  good  meal  by  proxy. 
I  used  to  gloat  over  the  feasts  at  Wardle's,  and  Mr. 

392 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

Stiggins'  hot  toast.  And  when  I  met  you  you  gave 
me — everything.  Murray  Flint  thinks  that  because 
I  am  thin  and  pale  I  am  all  spirit,  and  I'm  afraid 
you  have  the  same  idea.  You  didn't  dream,  did 
you,  that  I  was  pale  because  I  hadn't  had  enough 
to  eat?  And  when  you  told  me  that  you  wanted 
me  to  be  your  wife  I  looked  ahead  and  saw  the 
good  food  and  the  roaring  fires,  and  I  didn't  think 
of  anything  else.  I  honestly  didn't  think  of  you 
for  a  moment,  Max. 

"  There  were  days,  though,  when  you  meant  more 
to  me  than  just  that.  When  we  played  at  the 
Capitol — that  night  when  we  met  Lafayette  on  the 
stairs!  Nobody  had  ever  played  with  me.  But 
after  we  went  to  the  farm  I  was  smothered  in  ease. 
And  I  loved  it.  And  I  didn't  love  you.  You  were 
just — the  man  who  gave  me  things.  Do  you  see 
what  I  mean?  And  when  you  kissed  me  on  the 
stairs  it  was  as  if  I  were  being  kissed  by  a  nice  old 
Santa  Glaus. 

"Everybody  saw  it  but  you.  I  am  sure  Amy 
knew — and  Winifred  Reed.  You — you  ought  to 
marry  Winifred,  Max.  Perhaps  you  will.  You 
MTon't  want  me  after  you  read  this  letter.  And 
Winifred  is  splendid. 

"  It  was  your  speech  to  the  men  that  waked  me. 
I  saw  how  big  you  were,  and  I  just — shriveled  up. 

"And  you  mustn't  worry  about  me.  I  am  not 
393* 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

hungry  any  more.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  want 
anything  to  eat.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  older 
and  haven't  a  growing  appetite.  And  I  am  not 
any  of  the  things  you  thought  me.  And  of  course 
you  would  be  disappointed,  and  it  wouldn't  be 
fair." 

Having  posted  this,  Anne  had  other  things  to 
do.  She  wrote  mysterious  letters,  and  finally  came 
into  a  room  where  her  sisters  and  Aunt  Elizabeth 
were  sewing,  with  an  important-looking  paper  in 
her  hand. 

"  I  am  going  to  work,  Amy." 

"To  work!" 

"  Yes." 

Amy  and  Ethel  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  wore  white 
frocks,  and  looked  very  cool  and  feminine  and 
high-bred.  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  a  nose  like  Amy's 
and  the  same  look  of  race. 

It  was  Aunt  Elizabeth  who  said  in  her  command- 
ing voice :  "  What  are  you  talking  about,  Anne?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  work  in  the  War  Risk  Bureau, 
Aunt  Elizabeth.  I  wrote  to  two  senators,  and  they 
helped  me." 

No  woman  of  the  Merryman  family  had  ever 
worked  in  an  office. 

Anne  faced  a  storm  of  disapproval,  but  she  stood 
there  slim  and  defiant,  and  stated  her  reasons. 

"  We  need  money.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get 
394 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

through  a  winter  like  the  last.  I  can't  keep  my 
self-respect  if  we  go  on  living  as  we  did  last 
winter." 

"  Haven't  you  any  pride,  Anne?  " 

"  I  have  self-respect." 

She  left  the  room  a  conqueror.  After  she  had 
gone  the  three  women  talked  about  her.  They  did 
not  say  it  openly,  but  they  felt  that  there  was  really 
an  ordinary  streak  in  Anne.  Otherwise  she  would 
not  have  wanted  to  work  in  an  office. 

There  was,  however,  nothing  to  be  done.  Anne 
was  twenty-one.  She  was  to  get  a  hundred  dollars 
a  month.  In  spite  of  herself,  Amy  felt  a  throb  of 
the  heart  as  she  thought  of  what  that  hundred  dol- 
lars would  mean  to  them. 

Murray  Flint  was  much  perturbed  when  he  heard 
of  Anne's  decision.  He  wrote  to  her  that  of  course 
she  knew  that  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
go  into  an  office — his  home  and  hearthstone  were 
hers.  She  wrote  back  that  she  should  never  marry ! 
After  that,  Murray  felt,  with  Amy  and  Ethel  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth,  that  there  was  an  ordinary  streak 
in  Anne! 

When  he  arrived  in  August  at  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
he  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  Amy.  She 
looked  really  very  young  as  she  came  to  meet  him, 
and  Aunt  Elizabeth's  house  was  a  perfect  setting 
for  her  charms.  Murray  was  very  fond  of  Aunt 

395 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

Elizabeth's  house.  It  was  an  ancient,  stately 
edifice,  and  within  there  were  the  gold-framed  por- 
traits of  men  and  women  with  noses  like  Amy's  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth's. 

Murray  had  missed  Amy  very  much  and  he  told 
her  so. 

"  It  was  a  point  of  honor  for  me  to  ask  Anne 
again.  But  when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  lose 
you  I  learned  that  my  life  would  be  empty  with- 
out you." 

He  really  believed  what  he  was  telling  her.  If 
Amy  did  not  believe  it  she  made  no  sign.  She  was 
getting  much  more  than  she  expected,  and  she  ac- 
cepted him  graciously  and  elegantly,  as  became  a 
daughter  of  the  Merrymans. 

It  was  when  he  told  Anne  of  his  engagement  to 
Amy  that  Murray  again  offered  her  a  home. 
"  There  will  always  be  a  place  for  Amy's  sisters, 
Anne." 

"  You  are  very  good,  Murray — but  I  can't." 

She  had  said  the  same  thing  to  Maxwell,  who  had 
come  hot-footed  to  tell  her  that  her  letter  had  made 
no  difference  in  hie  feeling  for  her. 

"  How  could  you  think  it,  Anne?  My  darling, 
you  are  making  a  mountain  of  a  molehill !  " 

She  had  been  tremulous  but  firm.  "  I've  got  to 
have  my — self-respect,  Max." 

Because  he  understood  men  he  understood  her. 
396 


BEGGARS  ON  HORSEBACK 

And  when  he  had  left  her  he  had  said  to  himself 
with  long-drawn  breath,  "  She's  a  corking  kid." 

And  this  time  there  had  been  no  laughter  in  his 
eyes. 

All  that  winter  Anne  worked,  a  little  striving 
creature,  with  her  head  held  high ! 

Maxwell  was  in  town,  for  Congress  had  con- 
vened. But  he  had  not  come  to  see  her.  Now  and 
then  when  there  was  a  night  session  she  went  up  to 
the  House  and  sat  far  back  in  the  Gallery,  where, 
unperceived,  she  could  listen  to  her  lover's  voice. 
Then  she  would  steal  away,  a  little  ghost,  down  the 
shadowy  stairway;  but  there  were  no  games  now 
with  Lafayette! 

Amy  and  Murray  were  to  be  married  in  June. 
They  had  enjoyed  a  dignified  and  leisurely  engage- 
ment, and  Amy  had  bloomed  in  the  sunshine  of 
Murray's  approbation.  Anne's  salary  had  helped 
a  great  deal  in  getting  the  trousseau  together. 
Most  of  the  salary,  indeed,  had  been  spent  for  that. 
The  table  was,  as  usual,  meagre,  but  Anne  had  not 
seemed  to  care. 

She  was  therefore  rather  white  and  thin  when, 
on  the  day  that  Congress  adjourned,  Maxwell  came 
out  to  Georgetown  to  see  her.  It  had  been  a  long 
session,  and  it  was  spring. 

There  were  white  lilacs  in  a  great  blue  jar  in  the 
Merryman  library,  and  through  the  long  window  a 

397 


THE  GAY  COCKADE 

glimpse  of  a  thin  little  moon  in  a  faint  green 
sky. 

As  he  looked  at  Anne,  Maxwell  felt  a  lump  in  his 
throat.  She  had  given  him  her  hand  and  had 
smiled  at  him.  "  How  are  the  kittens?  "  she  had 
asked  in  an  effort  to  be  gay. 

He  did  not  answer  her  question.  He  went, 
rather,  directly  to  the  point.  "Anne,  why  wouldn't 
you  kiss  me  on  that  last  night?  " 

She  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  "It — if 
was  because  I  loved  you,  Max." 

"  I  thought  so.  But  you  had  to  prove  it  to  your- 
self? " 

"  Yes." 

"Anne,  that's  why  I've  let  you  alone  all  winter — 
so  that  you  might  prove  it.  But — I  can't  go  on. 
It  has  been  an  awful  winter  for  me,  Anne." 

It  had  been  an  awful  winter  for  her.  But  she 
had  come  out  of  it  knowing  herself.  And  even 
when  at  last  his  arms  were  about  her  and  he  was 
telling  her  that  he  would  never  let  her  go,  she  had 
a  plea  to  make: 

"  Don't  let  me  live  too  softly,  Max.    Life  isn't  a 

feather  bed You  belong  to  the  world.     I  must 

go  with  you  toward  the  big  things.    But  now  and 
then  we'll  run  back  to  the  farm." 

'  What  do  I  care  where  we  run,  so  that  we  run — 
together ! " 

398 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
at  the  Price  You  Like  to  Pay" 


There  Are  Two  Sides 
to  Everything — 

— including  the  wrapper  which  covers 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book.  When 
you  feel  in  the  mood  for  a  good  ro- 
mance, refer  to  the  carefully  selected  list 
of  modern  fiction  comprising  most  of 
the  successes  by  prominent  writers  of 
the  day  which  is  printed  on  the  back  of 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book  wrapper. 

You  will  find  more  than  five  hundred 
titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every 
mood  and  every  taste  and  every  pocket- 
book. 

Don't  forget  the  other  side,  but  in  case 
the  wrapper  is  losty  write  to  the  publishers 
for  a  complete  catalog. 


There  is  a  Grosset  &  Dunlap  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  A  Dunlap's  list 


RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  tine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther  !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


A     000  1 1 1  526     o 


